


Straighter Darker Trees

by AnonymusBosch



Series: Stardust [2]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:55:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 53,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28663536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymusBosch/pseuds/AnonymusBosch
Summary: Janeway dropped her arm, eyes darting forward to regard her blonde Borg stepping out of the salty waves, water streaming rivulets down her elegant form. Seven apparently sensed the perusal and looked up to lock eyes with the auburn woman some distance in front of her. The couple smiled at one another, eyes sparkling with heated diversion.B’Elanna cleared her throat and tapped a sandy toe against Janeway’s calf. The Admiral turned her head toward the Klingon. “Do you ladies need a moment alone?” she quipped.—Janeway and Seven, a few years on. Follow-up to “A Variety of Nothing” with a bit more plot. Begins four years after Voyager’s return to the Alpha Quadrant, with some divergence.
Relationships: Kathryn Janeway/Seven of Nine, Tom Paris/B'Elanna Torres
Series: Stardust [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2100615
Comments: 40
Kudos: 50





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. 
> 
> Notes: As “Variety” was primarily Seven’s perspective, “Trees” is chiefly Janeway’s. Some elements of the canon timeline apply, but there are many differences. The method by which the Voyager crew made it home is different from “Endgame” and irrelevant. All chapter headings are quotations from Frost’s Birches.
> 
> Story is complete; will post the rest shortly.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When I see birches bend to left and right  
> Across the lines of straighter darker trees,  
> I like to think some boy's been swinging them."  
> — _Birches_ , Robert Frost, 1969

#  **I. They Click Upon Themselves as the Breeze Rises.**

The midday sun cut an elongated, scalloped shadow from the brightly-leafed umbrella above, which set Kathryn Janeway’s pale shins in dark relief against the sand’s beige brightness. The white pole of the green, pink, teal, and tangerine-candied parasol had been firmly planted in the hot grains several minutes before by an exuberant Tom Paris, who had flexed his bare biceps proudly after the feat and then sprinted toward the white-capped waves ahead of him. Four-year-old Miral Paris screeched happily at the sight of her goofy father splashing in the shallow surf, and chased after him without a second’s hesitation.

“Don’t go out too far with her, Tommy!” hollered a bronzed B’Elanna Torres into the wind, hands set at the waist of her red tankini. Her husband and daughter had clearly not heeded the warning, diving into the curling waves with abandon. The half-Klingon pushed her black sunglasses over her ridged forehead to nestle in the chestnut strands atop her head, and looked down at her former Captain. Kathryn had in short order set up their items under the shade and was already reclining on one of the unfurled blue and white striped towels. She was garbed in a black scoop-neck, exposed-back one-piece. “Christ, I don’t know why I bother,” B’Elanna griped, rolling her eyes toward her husband. “It’s like I have _three_ kids half the time.”

The engineer’s other child, three-year-old Michael Owen Paris, was slowly making his way toward his mother and godmother while clasping securely the hand of his second godmother, Seven of Nine. Michael’s small feet struggled mightily to maintain balance while stomping through the small dunes. The blonde ex-Borg was patient with the boy, pausing with him when needed as he gathered his footing, never once folding to the temptation to speed along the process by picking him up. The toddler’s paternal grandparents, Owen and Julia Paris, loped easily behind their grandson, carrying beach chairs and a mesh bag of toys as arcs of sand kicked up behind their flip-flops.

Kathryn grinned at her partner and the tiny Paris as they approached, taking a moment to catalogue hungrily Seven’s immaculate body on display in her turquoise bikini. Scattered flecks of metal starbursts reflected the sun brilliantly on her flawless skin. Janeway had to squint against the brilliance.

“Hi Mama,” the boy greeted, tripping over his own water shoes and catching his tumble hands-first on the towel in front of his Klingon mother.

“Hey baby, did you have a good nap?” B’Elanna asked, squatting low to kiss the toe-headed toddler on his cheek.

“I wanna go to the water,” he announced, burrowing his head into B’Elanna’s neck and skipping the inquiry about his midday sleep altogether.

“Okay, how about Granddad take you down?” B’Elanna smiled up at her in-laws. “Mama, Seven, and Kathryn want to have some adult time.”

Owen nodded at the women, eyes loitering curiously over Kathryn’s muscle-thin form in the flattering black suit. He broke off his gaze with a start and ruffled Michael’s hair. “No problem. Let’s go, bud,” he said, patting the boy’s shoulder.

“I want Seven to go, too!” he said with the hint of a whine. Torres sighed, and opened her mouth to protest.

“I do not mind,” Seven said in interruption, and promised, “I will return later.”

“We’ll hold you to that,” said B’Elanna, relaxing back onto the fluffy terry cloth and sliding her sunglasses back into place.

The blonde nodded, leaned down to kiss Kathryn’s temple with a hand on her cheek, and hoisted the boy up to sit snugly at her hip. Michael squirmed excitedly in her hold and clapped. Janeway’s sunglass-covered eyes crinkled, watching the foursome make their way down to the waterline.

Minutes later, the elder Parises were reclined in their aluminum and canvas beach chairs, shins getting gently splashed by the oscillating waves on the shoreline. Seven and Michael were playing in the loose, saturated sand nearby, with Miral and Tom quickly trudging over to join in the fun. Owen lumbered over to drop plastic buckets, shovels, and castle molds down in front of the kids, who were less interested in building structures with the offered tools as they were packing damp sand over Seven’s legs and feet to incase the tall woman in a makeshift grainy cast. The children had enclosed the Borg’s body up to her hips before deciding their creation needed a bit more artistic flair. Picking up runny clumps, Miral (delicately) and Michael (clumsily) dropped wet sand bundles into little turrets and towers atop Seven’s legs and arms, both giggling hysterically with the task. Tom had wasted no time in helping his children with their artwork, utilizing the shovel to increase efficiency. Seven was a good sport about the whole thing, remaining perfectly still as not to disrupt the fragile sculptures.

Torres and Janeway grinned at the sight from their shady spot several yards away. “She’s a natural,” said B’Elanna, part wistful and part teasing.

Janeway groaned goodnaturedly. “Not this again.”

“Okay, okay, I know I’ve bugged you about it a lot. I’m just saying you’re both so good with Icheb.” B’Elanna shrugged. “How different could one a fourth his size be?”

“Ha!” barked Kathryn. “A fourth the size and about five times the trouble, as you well know. Icheb is wildly independent and actually listens when we tell him what to do, which isn’t necessary very often by the way. An… _infant_ is a completely different scenario.”

Janeway’s eyes drifted away to regard her blonde partner once again, mind wandering over to their adopted son, hard at work in his last year at the Starfleet Academy in San Francisco. Kathryn had spoken truthfully about her misgivings around introducing a baby into their already hectic lives. With Seven’s multiple projects, the family’s collective Academy duties, and Janeway’s role as commanding Admiral of the Delta Fleet, the couple barely had adequate time to devote to Icheb as it was, nevermind the addition of a second hypothetical child. This week of vacation alone on the Carolina coast, for instance, had been clawed away from their tight schedules by sheer force of will.

“Let’s put a pin in that,” the Klingon said, miming sticking a thumbtack into a corkboard floating in front of her face. “Back to Icheb. He’s coming tonight, right?”

Janeway nodded. “He said he could stay the weekend after his tactical simulation is done in—” she dug through her bag to locate her portable chronometer and quickly glance at the time, “four hours.”

“The beach house should be a nice break from those god awful barracks. Does he need Tom to pick him up at the transport hub in town?”

“He said no,” shrugged Kathryn, tossing the device back into her tote. “I’m telling you — independent.”

“How is he ending up in his classes?”

Kathryn shimmied her shoulders and smiled slyly. “Top cadet in the Science specialization. He’ll finish with a doctorate in Quantum Cosmology. Minor in warp mechanics.”

B’Elanna angled her body a bit more toward the auburn woman and raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you didn’t birth him?”

“Cute,” she said flatly.

Torres curled her fingers around Janeway’s wrist. “Wait a second. Don’t you lecture in some of the courses? Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

“I just guest lecture,” she hedged. “The only grades I would give him would be in my simulations, but a full panel marks those. I have one coming up soon, actually.” She looked over at the pretty Klingon. “Doubting my objectivity, Commander?”

Torres squeezed her hand around Kathryn’s thin forearm. “Never, Captain,” she said, though Janeway had not held the rank for four years. B’Elanna shook her head. “I cannot believe he’s graduating in a month. I wish we could be there.” She rubbed a hand down her face and grunted, all levity from her previous teasing draining out of her like a sieve. “I know it’s been a while since you’ve been by, but these slipstream drive orders are… a lot. I’m sure Seven’s told you.”

The Admiral inclined her head. “She has a bit.” Seven had consulted on B’Elanna’s Slipstream Research and Development Unit, or SRDU, at the Utopia Planitia shipyards part-time over the last couple of years, in addition to being loaned out to supply her expertise to other high-level clearance projects across Starfleet. Seven would have preferred to spend more of her time paired up with the former Voyager Chief Engineer, but had been overruled by select members of the top brass who wanted to spread the ex-Borg’s prodigious intellect to as many Federation interests as possible. Mind filled with her partner once again, Janeway looked over at Seven to satiate her thoughts. She and Tom had left the children to Owen and Julia’s watch in the shallow surf as they swam further out into the roiling waves to rinse their bodies of the brown sugar sand. Kathryn tilted her head to the side in survey of Seven’s precise backstroke beyond the line of breaking waves. Like most things she tried, the ex-Borg executed the motion with impeccable skill. Janeway shook her head to forestall a more lurid mental tangent, and returned her attention to her Klingon companion. “She may have hinted that the SRDU deadlines have been a little unrealistic,” she opened vaguely, expecting that B’Elanna would take up the thread of the conversation.

“I’ll fucking say. An average slipstream takes two and a half weeks to construct. They want _three_ rendered and completed within that same window. I’ve got twelve of the full order of 46 left to finish before the quarter’s done, with a team of only seventeen to do it.” B’Elanna screwed her eyes shut and pushed a stream of air out of her mouth. “I keep telling Admiral James it can’t be done, but he seems to think every issue can be solved by throwing more credits at it.” B’Elanna dropped her arm over her forehead. “I think they’re regretting giving me this command,” she admitted wearily.

“Hey, none of that,” chided Janeway, patting a hand on Torres’s leg. “It’s not you. Really. James is just feeling the heat to get them installed and fully operational. There’s, ah, let’s say _renewed_ interest in outfitting a squadron with the new drives as soon as possible.”

Torres turned her face to Kathryn. She blinked. “What do you know, Admiral?” she drew out slowly.

Janeway pressed her lips together and grimaced. “I can’t tell you… yet,” she whispered ominously. “But, you’ll be told once you finish the order.”

The engineer leaned closer to her former Captain, ridged brow furrowed. “Oh my god. They’re going in your ships, aren’t they? The Delta Fleet is going to be my slipstream armada!”

Janeway studied her nailbeds dispassionately and said nothing.

“Kahless, I feel like such an idiot. Here I’m assuming the Miranda-class ships are getting them as upgrades. Of _course_ they’re for Delta Fleet!” she hissed, collapsing back onto her towel and throwing her hands up. “I should have known. Especially with Seven lurking around all the time, making sure everything is just so with her damned exacting Borg specifications. Almost like she—” B’Elanna cut herself off and sat up sharply, jaw dropping open as her brain caught up with her mouth. She swiveled her head toward the outwardly aloof Admiral. “Kathryn. We’re going after them aren’t we?” She leaned down to hover over the redhead. “ _You’re_ going after them.”

Janeway sighed, resigning herself finally to ending her years of subterfuge about her post-Voyager clandestine mission to her former Chief Engineer. She should have known the minute she got the Klingon talking about her slipstream work that the other woman would piece together the full picture. Kathryn knew that B’Elanna was the type of person who needed to talk her way through a situation to understand it. Just as well. Janeway had been authorized by Admiral Richard James to brief Commander Torres of the years-in-the-making stratagem after the cutting-edge engines were completed. Informing her of the SRDU’s full scope a few months ahead of schedule would not be detrimental. “Listen. Before we say anything more, I have to have your complete confidence on this. Not a word to your team.”

“Captain, I’ve successfully kept your secrets before,” she reminded, body strained over the petite Admiral with bated breath.

Janeway nodded. “You’re right. We’re going after them.” Above her, Torres sucked in a breath, but did not move an inch. “The Admiralty, myself included, think the slipstream technology is our most effective method of matching the speed and agility of their transwarp coils in flight. And we’re going to need all the advantages we can get in a dogfight. The Delta Fleet will be outfitted with the engines before the fall, along with several smaller skiffs and shuttlecraft assigned to the flagship.”

“And that’s what Tom has been doing with all his test flights?” whispered the Klingon. “Breaking in vessels and acclimating them to slip speeds?”

“Yes,” verified the Admiral.

B’Elanna pursed her lips, irritation flashing over her expression. “So he knows about all of this?”

“Not exactly,” Janeway mollified. “He knows my fleet is getting the drives, but he doesn’t know why. Unless he’s guessed on his own. He probably thought you knew already.”

“Can I tell him?” she asked immediately.

The Admiral shrugged. “As long as he knows not to tell anyone else, I suppose it’s fine. He would have figured it out soon enough. The tactical maneuvers they’ll have him practicing in the next couple of weeks will be a dead giveaway that we’re planning a Borg counter-offensive.”

“ _Shit_ ,” said the half-Klingon. She took a deep breath. “Now I really can’t fuck this up.”

“Ah ah, I don’t want to hear another word like that, Commander, that’s an order,” she said not unkindly. “You’re the best officer for the job. James knows it. I know it. The full Admiralty knows it.” Kathryn was not exaggerating. B’Elanna Torres was the only Starfleet officer who had ever built a slipstream drive. There was quite literally no one better equipped to complete the task.

Torres ran a hand through her hair. “Aye, Admiral. I’ll get it done.”

“I know you will. That was never in doubt. You’ve never let me down before.”

B’Elanna huffed a mirthless laugh. “Yes, well you have this horrible trait of making everyone in your orbit desperate to please you and perform to their highest capability. I think it’s called ‘effective leadership,’” she said, holding up air quotes around the terms, “and I gotta say, it’s a little annoying.”

“My sincerest apologies. I’ll venture to be a worse CO,” Janeway quipped. “And you know this confidentiality deal works both ways, right? As your friend, I would never repeat anything you say to me in confidence. It’s alright to admit to being stressed in your work. God knows I’ve been there.” Kathryn reached a hand up to squeeze a bronzed shoulder.

“I know that, I do,” assured B’Elanna. “Pressure on myself I can deal with. It’s just that I’ve spent most of my life alone, with my own survival as my sole responsibility.” She took a beat and looked out at her family splashing and kicking up water in the surf. “But I have so much more to lose now.”

“I know, dear,” she said rubbing her slender hand along the Klingon’s arm. B’Elanna forced a smile onto her face and patted Janeway’s hand in silent thanks. The petite Admiral smiled back ruefully. “Believe me, I know.”

Janeway dropped her arm, eyes darting forward to regard her blonde Borg stepping out of the salty waves, water streaming rivulets down her elegant form. Seven apparently sensed the perusal and looked up to lock eyes with the auburn woman some distance in front of her. The couple smiled at one another, eyes sparkling with heated diversion.

B’Elanna cleared her throat and tapped a sandy toe against Janeway’s calf. The Admiral turned her head toward the Klingon. “Do you ladies need a moment alone?” she quipped.

Kathryn smirked and flipped a hand in the breeze in place of an eye roll. Looking ahead, she could see Seven and Tom move to sit face-to-face in mirrored crisscross positioning in the flat sand, forearms casually pressed against their knees as their bodies dried in the sun. Tom’s eyebrows waggled at the ex-Borg implishly, flashing a devious grin to match. Seven shook her head in reproach at the pilot’s words and smothered a smile of her own, though from her distance, Janeway could not make out what Tom had said to engender the reaction.

“Oh no. What do you suppose the blondes are talking about?” Kathryn asked, flopping her arm lazily onto the sand in their direction.

B’Elanna straightened her spine to peer over at the pair in question, propping one arm stiffly behind her back in support, and balancing the other on her raised knee. “Those two?” She lowered her head to have her naked eyes scan them over the tops of her dark sunglasses, and shook her head. “Probably swapping techniques on how to go down on us.”

“B’Elanna!” yelped Janeway, voice dripping with mortification. She swatted the back of her hand at the Klingon’s waist. “Oh my god, you’re as bad as Tom!”

Torres tossed her head back and laughed loudly at Janeway’s discomfort. The normally progressive Admiral had a somewhat counterintuitive, yet oddly endearing streak of prudishness. Like her boyish husband, B’Elanna enjoyed poking at it when the mood struck. “I’m dead serious! Kahless, you should hear them a few drinks in. The lewd shit they talk about? They’re worse than frat boys.”

Janeway covered her tortoise shell-rimmed sunglasses with her hands and shook her head. “Oh, I don’t want to know. I really don’t.”

B’Elanna hummed a chuckle. “Don’t worry, your gal worships you. I’ve never heard her say a negative word. It’s kind of sickening actually. In their little ‘bro chats’ you always come off well.” She paused. “Emphasis on the ‘always come.’”

“B’Elanna Torres!” yelled Janeway, sitting up sharply to push at the cackling engineer’s side with both hands. B’Elanna toppled over from her perch easily, the maintenance of her posture forgotten in her fit of giggles. “Emphasis on the always come...” Kathryn repeated in a mildly decent mimic of the spitfire Klingon’s voice, face hovering over the tittering woman below her. Janeway huffed and curled herself in the fetal position facing the tanned Klingon. “You’re terrible. Honestly.”

“It was too easy. I couldn’t pass it up.” Torres grinned and righted herself on the towel once again, nestling her body deeper into the comfortably warm mattress of sand. She sighed grandly in contentment. “Well. I feel loads better. I should embarrass you more often.”

Janeway twisted her lips to the side and smiled despite herself. “Hm, glad I could help,” she said drolly. She rolled to lay flat as well, and laced her fingers together underneath her head, legs crossed at the ankles. Not a moment later, her peaceful repose was disrupted by a spritely Michael, flying toward the auburn Admiral at toddler warp.

“Cap’n, Cap’n!” the boy squealed, landing atop the supine Janeway’s abdomen.

“Oof!” said Kathryn, catching the boy’s body weight too late to avoid the collision.

“Hey, hey, we _don’t_ jump on people like that, Michael Paris! Be gentle with others,” scolded B’Elanna. She took a beat and rolled her eyes. “Christ, I’m trying to teach a Klingon child to be gentle. My mother would be so disappointed. Are you okay?”

“I’m alright,” assured the Admiral, though her voice strained slightly with effort. She removed her sunglasses, clutched the grinning boy’s sides, and helped settle him to straddle over her waist. “There’s my sweet boy,” she cooed, wiping away a bit of saltwater that had collected along his forehead ridges. Unlike Miral, who was the spitting image of her lovely mother, Michael Paris was a carbon-copied Thomas Eugene Paris through and through, excessive enthusiasm included.

Michael bounced up and down. “Let’s play Starship, Cap’n. Do the Starship!”

“Okay,” she relented immediately. “We can play Starship.”

“Pushover,” muttered Torres.

“Oh hush,” retorted Kathryn. She lifted the toddler up into the air, balancing his torso along her raised feet, and grabbed his little hands with her own for support. Michael grinned down at her. “Go!” he ordered.

Janeway complied, rapidly seesawing her feet against his front and twisting to simulate a turbulent flight. “Oh no! We’ve got some bad drag. It’s dropping us out of warp,” she said, leaning his body to the right and shaking it madly. Michael shrieked with the movement, winding himself with his giggles. “I think we’re going to need Chief Michael to get the warp core back online!”

“Warp, warp, warp!” he shouted, wriggling his body against her feet, and squeezing her hands tightly like a joystick — his apparent engineering fix to the imagined mechanical failure.

“Whew, I think you got it, Chief!” she smiled and resumed a more smooth twisting motion from side to side. After a few minutes of play, Kathryn exhaled with exaggerated exhaustion and lowered the boy back down to the ground. 

Michael inched up close to Kathryn’s eyes, and placed his tiny starfish hands on either side of her face. “Again, again,” he demanded.

“I think you wore out the Captain, Chief. How about we try again later?” the Admiral asked.

“Okay,” he mumbled in resignation, scooting up further and dragging his little fingers across her cheekbones, eyebrows, and nose in close inspection. “Pretty Cap’n,” he whispered sweetly. Kathryn grinned and laughed lightly under the adorable scrutiny.

B’Elanna turned on her side to face the pair, propping her chin up with a hand. She smirked. “Kathryn Janeway. Making all the Paris men swoon since 2356.”

The redhead rolled her eyes at B’Elanna’s indelicate implication. “Oh _please_. I’ve never done any such thing.”

Torres lifted her free shoulder. “Fine. Owen Paris has always felt apathy towards you, and my favorite activity is repeating myself to my subordinates. See? We can all say shit that isn’t true.”

Kathryn tsked, and then tickled Michael’s stomach, smiling mischievously. “Your mama says the silliest things, doesn’t she?” The toddler snickered and wiggled under her tactile assault. Kathryn Janeway most certainly did not want to wade into the tumultuous waters of what Owen Paris may or may not have felt for her years ago, or, more concerning, at present — least of all with his daughter-in-law, no matter how close she was with the woman. B’Elanna seemed to pick up on Janeway’s subtle hint that the subject was a nonstarter, and moved on.

“So, grill tonight? I think you’re the only one who knows how to operate it, but Tom will insist on doing it. Fair warning,” the Klingon said.

“It should be an interesting experiment. To be honest, Gretchen is the expert. She still uses charcoal about once a month to cook her meat, if you can believe it.”

“No shit?” frowned B’Elanna, eyebrows raised in mild surprise, “Impressively old school.”

“That’s Mom,” shrugged Kathryn. Michael had now settled to rest prone against her, blonde head tucked underneath her chin. His fingertips were etching nonsense patterns into the sand beside them. She scratched her nails down his back soothingly.

B’Elanna reached over and rubbed her fingers through Michael’s soft hair. “I think I might go take a quick swim if you’ve got this little one in hand.”

“Go ahead, we’re good here,” she nodded. The boy did not stir when his mother shuffled away towards the water, seemingly content to rest with his godmother. Kathryn glanced sideways at the child’s sketching in the sand. “Whatcha drawing, Sweetheart?” she asked.

His mouth moved wordlessly over his answer at first before verbalizing it. “The wind,” he said, swirling a finger in a spiral motion into the pale grains. “It’s everywhere.”

Kathryn smiled into his hair, indeed ruffled by the ocean breeze, and inhaled deeply his sweet smell — its overtones of sunscreen, saltwater, and baby oil made her heart warm in her chest. She felt painfully tender in their shared closeness as if nostalgic for a memory she could not accurately recall; her insides ached with the peace of it. Soon, they would all be thrown into the fray once again, bodies armored with righteousness and eyes hard with battle. Reality taunted her with a sharpness, reminding her of the ephemeral nature of moments like this one. She squeezed the boy tightly all the same, desperate to hold onto this handful of happy sand leaking through her tight fist, intent to protect him against the tide of the future. “Where is the wind taking us?” she asked, kissing his crown.

Michael rubbed his cheek against her sternum and whispered prophetically, “I don’t know. Out there. But the wind blows us at the same time. All together.”

  
  
  
  


#  **II. Some Boy Too Far from Town to Learn Baseball, Whose Only Play Was What He Found Himself.**

Tom Paris held a gleaming spatula aloft, looking down at the smoldering lumps of charcoal underneath the hot iron grate. His wife was outside with him, relaxing on the spacious deck facing the beach, watching the sky turn pink and purple with the day’s end. His former Captain knelt by his side, adjusting the damper to increase airflow below the bowl of the grill. “It just needs a bit more oxygen to flame up the coals,” she explained to the pilot, rising to stand once again. “We probably should’ve left them in the grill chimney a touch longer to let the coals ash over more, but,” she shrugged, “that should help.”

Kathryn rubbed her palms down her slapdash skirt — a wraparound sarong covering the bottom half of her bathing suit — to clear her hands of grit smudges from the damper handle. She tilted her head and regarded the fire in front of them. Seconds after her alteration, several orange flames licked through the cracks between the black briquettes. She nodded and smiled at her former Chief Helmsman. “See? Just what we needed. We’re back in business.”

Tom smiled back. “Absolutely. Just needed to feed the fire,” he agreed.

Behind him, B’Elanna laughed and rolled her eyes. “Right, like _you_ know what the hell she’s talking about, Tommy,” she grinned.

Tom twisted around to regard his wife, who was reclined in a wooden adirondacks chair, foot propped up in the seat next to her thigh with a glass of wine balanced on the armrest. “I _do_ ,” he defended. “I’ve grilled before on the Holodeck!”

“Yes, but that task was no doubt completed with the safety protocols engaged,” smirked Seven. The ex-Borg had just stepped out onto the planks of the deck carrying a platter of raw meat toward the flames.

Tom smiled at his blonde compatriot and thrust the flipping utensil in her direction. “Hey, you’re supposed to be on my side, Sev. You’ve been spending way too much time around the Klingon.”

“Don’t take it personally, Tom. You just make it so fun to tease you,” said Janeway, pinching his cheek.

The pilot blushed pink under her mollycoddling. “No, I just like the company of strong women. It’s my worst fault.”

Janeway laughed throatily and squeezed his arm. “Alright, I think I’ll go finish chopping vegetables for the salad. You think you got this, Lieutenant?” she asked, gesturing toward the grill and pile of food.

“Aye aye, Admiral,” he barked, saluting her with the spatula.

Inside, Kathryn stood by the marble countertop, slicing through a pile of peeled carrots, one foot situated against the knee of the opposite leg, balancing easily in a modified Tree pose. Julia and Miral were at a counter perpendicular to her position, gathered around a dish of an unfinished potato casserole. Owen and Michael were playing with legos spread across the living room floor with the blocks clacking noisily together.

“Do you require assistance?” asked Icheb, who had appeared suddenly by her side, hands clasped at his back. He had changed out his cadet uniform upon his arrival a couple of hours before, and had donned a lavender T-shirt and pressed khakis shorts in the interim. Kathryn smiled tenderly at the dark-haired Brunali. Four years in Starfleet Academy had turned the lanky teenager the Voyager crew had rescued from a defunct Borg vessel into the lean-muscled, handsome young man before her. It was mind boggling for Kathryn to think he was just shy of Harry Kim’s age when she first met the young Ensign on Voyager.

“Thank you, Sweetheart. How about you chop the tomatoes? I’ve already rinsed them,” she said, handing over a serrated knife. He nodded and took his place at her side, settling into his job at the other end of the wooden chopping block.

“So. This was Jellico’s simulation today, right? How was it?” she asked, side of her mouth curling upwards.

Icheb inclined his head. “Satisfactory. I was First Officer for my unit in this rotation. We successfully neutralized a Cardassian assault.”

“What was the method of attack?” She tossed the pile sliced carrots onto the washed arugula in the wooden salad bowl and reached for a skinned cucumber.

“A biochemical offensive. We were lured into what we deemed to be a straightforward firefight in neutral territory. Instead, their warships were outfitted with pulse missiles tipped with a virus. A most exhilarating exercise,” he said, rotating his knife horizontally to slice a tomato through its meridian.

“Hm. The deception fits, but biochemical warfare isn’t typical of the Cardassian Union,” she mused. Unbidden, a memory of her younger self strapped to a metal slab in the bowels of a dank Cardassian prison, sneering Gul poised over her body, blared suddenly through her mind’s eye. Aside from Icheb’s reference to Cardassians, Owen Paris’s company periodically resulted in these dark images violently invading Kathryn’s thoughts, at no fault of the elder Admiral. Wrong place, wrong time, and some such other meaningless platitude. She wondered if Owen suffered from a reciprocal affliction in her proximity. Did he still see the bloodied, beaten body of a 23-year-old Ensign Janeway, eyes wide with agony, when he looked at her? She blinked hard and rolled her neck to prevent the memory from manifesting itself further. She would deal with it later. “But I suppose therein lies the challenge. The unexpected.”

“Indeed. A ballistic wargame seemed far too novice for fourth year cadets. I suggested scanning the impact points of the torpedoes on our hull, which revealed the presence of the viral agent.”

Kathryn grinned, and bumped her hip against his side. “Well done, you.”

The Brunali did his best to hide a verecund smile, but blushed under the praise nonetheless. “After the identification, it was a simple matter of sealing off breached decks, maintaining adequate weapons volley, attending to the infected crewmembers, and preventing further contamination. Amara was quite an efficient Captain throughout the exercise.”

Kathryn raised an eyebrow and smiled knowingly. “Amara?” Icheb rarely, if ever, referred to fellow cadets by their first names in her presence.

He paused his knife-hand over the chopping board for a beat before continuing the chore. “That is to say, Cadet Kel.”

“Ah,” she said, hoping her tone communicated disinterest. “She’s the joined Trill in your class, isn’t she?” The Admiral knew very well that she was. Amara Kel was a raven-haired beauty in the Medical track with bright green eyes and a dazzling smile. “She’s a sharp student. And rather pretty, I think,” Kathryn shrugged casually.

“She is… an adept cadet,” he said quietly.

She smirked, but decided to let him off the hook for now. “Adept, yes,” she agreed, lifting the chopped cucumber into the bowl using her hand at the flat of her knife. Her role in the salad-making completed, she turned around to rest the small of her back against the edge of the counter and looked up at her ward. “Have you given any more thought to what you’d like to request for your first assignment?”

Icheb paused, dumped the tomatoes into the completed salad, and turned to regard her with what looked like a tinge of trepidation. “Yes Admiral, I have. I have thought about it at great length in fact, and...” He pursed his lips, and appeared to lose steam in his answer.

“And?” she prompted.

“I am,” he tilted his chin, “concerned that you will be displeased with my selection.”

“Icheb,” she said softly. “This is your career. _Your_ life. I don’t want you to ever feel like you’ll be disappointing me, or Seven for that matter. We’ll support you no matter what you decide. I’m not an Admiral when we’re together like this. This is just you and me talking.” She leaned up to kiss him on his cheek to emphasize her point. His mouth widened into a small smile before he could stop himself.

“Hey, you guys almost done in here?” called B’Elanna, poking her head into the sliding glass door, body still outside on the deck.

“We’re ready, Mama!” yipped Miral from behind them.

“I just need two minutes to nuke the casserole, dear,” said Julia, turning to look at her daughter-in-law.

“Admiral?” queried the Klingon.

“All set,” she responded. Glancing back up at Icheb she requested, “Can we finish this conversation later?”

“Of course,” he smiled. Janeway almost laughed aloud at the obvious relief in his face.

After a dinner of grilled chicken breast and their side dishes, children all tucked into bed, the adults lingered outside on the deck sipping wine and listening to a playlist of old Jazz standards that Julia had curated. Apparently, Tom had inherited his love for all things twentieth century from his cultured mother.

Kathryn was pressed against Seven, whose arm was draped casually over the back of their bench protectively; Janeway felt a relaxing countenance settle over her, as was common when she was near her beautiful partner. In all of the excitement of the day, it seemed she had barely spent time with Seven at all. How strange to miss a person who had been within thirty meters of her since waking. She rubbed her hand along the blonde’s knee, and eyed her strangely naked fingers.

“Kathryn,” said Owen, interrupting her truss of comfort. “Have you gotten a chance to read over the reports about the flare up of activity from the scout ships along the borders? Troubling.”

Janeway opened her mouth to respond, before Tom piped up in interruption. “Nope. No way, old man. No shop talk on holiday,” he said, wagging a finger at his father.

Owen expelled a sound of exasperation. “Now, wait just a minute—”

“Oh, he’s right, Owen!” scolded Julia. “None of that while we’re here. Starfleet has interrupted too many of our vacations over the years.”

Owen sighed and waved a hand, accepting the censure.

Icheb drew a quick breath, and turned to Julia Paris. “I understand you are the Jazz enthusiast, Mrs. Paris? I am just beginning my exploration into the genre, and have been impressed by what I have heard this evening.” Kathryn smiled at her boy’s intuition in recognizing the need to change the subject. She hoped she had something to do with the development of that quality, though she suspected Seven was the more likely influence. Her blonde Borg could be astonishingly perceptive.

Julia smiled in turn. “Yes Icheb, it’s a passion of mine. I can send you some music files if you’d like to hear more.”

“Please,” he nodded. “I would enjoy that very much.”

Kathryn smirked. _What a charmer._ She wondered if Amara Kel thought so, too. It still amazed her how well he had adjusted to the human condition, not only outside of the Collective, but within the Voyager crew, and better still amongst the overpopulated planets of the Alpha Quadrant. While she was immensely proud the young man had chosen a career in Starfleet and enrolled in the Academy almost immediately upon their return to Earth four years ago, part of her wished he had taken time to be an unexceptional teenager devoid of the responsibility of a military officer, the pressure cooker of the Delta Quadrant, and the arduous process of re-acclimation to individuality outside of the hive mind. Had Icheb ever played a sport or learned a musical instrument? Was this Amara Kel his first foray into a romantic relationship? He had experienced unimaginable spatial phenomena in his short life, yet scarcely enjoyed the bromidic simplicities of childhood. Such precious mundanities had been stolen away from him by a mechanical monarch of little feeling and no sympathies. Kathryn’s blood still boiled at the obscene violation.

She heard the computer system pause, and turn over a new song — Billie Holiday’s rendition of _Autumn in New York._ One of her favorites. She stood suddenly and held out her hand to the young Brunali, resolved to provide him with at least one banal human experience today. “Come on, up, up,” she urged. He furrowed his brow in confusion. “Dance with me,” she requested, pulling the young man to his feet.

“What a great idea!” exclaimed Tom, hopping inelegantly toward his wife. He clasped her hands and tugged. “Come on, my B’El.”

B’Elanna rolled her eyes, but grinned widely at the attention. She folded immediately to Tom’s urging, allowing herself to be pulled close to her husband’s already swaying body.

After a moment’s hesitation, Icheb likewise complied, casting a quick auditing look at Tom’s positioning in order to copy the form. Kathryn nodded and adjusted his hand on her waist. “That’s right, and then hold this one,” she instructed, clasping their floating hands together at their side. She coaxed the young man into a simple two-step in time with the music, whispering helpful guidance to him when needed.

Once in a smooth rhythm with her dance partner, Kathryn propped her chin onto Icheb’s tall shoulder and met Seven’s eyes. The blonde appeared transfixed by the pair of them, smiling adoringly at the scene. Kathryn’s heart melted at the sight of the rare expression on the Borg. She found herself imagining the character of Seven’s face were it beaming at an infant of their own creation. She sighed and looked away. _Damn B’Elanna and her meddling._

Slate-blue eyes wandering, Kathryn unintentionally met the gaze of Owen Paris, who was worryingly already staring back at her. Janeway startled at the intensity in his eyes, and promptly looked again to Seven, who was likewise just returning her attention from the elderly Admiral. The Borg had surely seen the look as well. Kathryn maintained eye contact with Seven for the rest of the dance, eager to avoid further awkwardness. The vision in front of her was far more appealing anyway. With Ms. Holiday crooning above them, she smiled heatedly at Seven, ears resonating with Billie’s voice, “It’s Autumn in New York. It’s good to live again.”

—

Kathryn padded back into the bedroom from the en suite, body wrapped in white terry cloth and skin dewy from her shower and subsequent lotioning. Seven was already lounging on the bed donned in an oversized sleep shirt, reading through a PADD; she lifted her eyes immediately when Janeway appeared. The blonde smiled slyly at her former Captain and set her tablet on the side table.

“Come back to me,” Seven beckoned, pulling down the sheets.

Janeway smiled demurely and walked around the mattress to her side of the bed, climbing onto it knees-first. The Borg wasted no time, leaning forward for a kiss the moment Kathryn was within her wingspan. The Admiral wrapped an arm around the blonde’s neck and pulled her closer still, equally eager to reunite.

“Did you have a good day?” Janeway murmured against Seven’s lips.

“That remains to be seen, does it not?” she quipped, drawing a hand up to hold securely Kathryn’s jaw.

Janeway hummed a deep laugh. “I suppose it does.”

“You looked _highly_ appealing today,” the blonde rasped. “You are so beautiful, Katie.”

The redhead blushed, and deflected. “I’ve got nothing on you, Seven of Nine.”

Seven broke off their kiss and quickly stripped off her night shirt, tossing it aside without looking where it landed. She repeated the action with Janeway’s towel, lowered the diminutive woman down to the bed, and climbed over top of her to press their naked bodies together.

Kathryn drew her legs up along Seven’s sides and brushed pieces of her golden hair back from her striking face. “I want us to spend a lot of time with Icheb tomorrow on the beach. Just the three of us.”

“Most acceptable,” she agreed. 

“I was just thinking with him likely getting shipped off onto some long expedition after his graduation, we have to take advantage of this time as much as we can.” Kathryn groaned and rolled her eyes. “I just remembered I never got to finish talking to him about the assignment he’s planning to request.”

Seven hummed and lifted the curved cortical implant over her left eye.

Janeway wrinkled her brow. “What? Have you already spoken to him about it?”

The blonde cut a slight smile. “Not explicitly, though based on our conversations, I can submit an educated hypothesis.”

Kathryn tilted her head forward. “Which is?”

“He will request assignment to the Delta Fleet.”

The Admiral collapsed deeper into the pillows at her back and puffed a breath through her cheeks, immediately feeling the truth of the supposition. “I don’t guess I can persuade him otherwise?”

Seven leaned down to kiss the redhead’s now-exposed neck. “What are your objections, Kathryn?” she asked against the sensitive skin.

“Oh, I don’t know. He’s been captured by the Borg in the Delta Quadrant once before, and it seems an unnecessary risk to take in his first assignment. It’s a deep space mission with brand new, largely untested engine technology. A run-of-the-mill expedition in the Alpha Quadrant might be a more traditional expedition to cut his teeth on as a new Ensign,” she said, ticking off her reasons on her fingers.

“Are those objections from his commanding officer or his mother?” she muttered against Kathryn’s breast.

The smaller woman sighed. “Okay, I admit I might be a little blinded by my feelings. I’m just worried about him, Honey. You and I both know what this mission will entail. It’s incredibly dangerous, and he’s so _young_. I would as soon forbid you from going on it if I thought you wouldn’t make my life a living hell over the order.”

Seven looked up and smirked. “A wise decision, Admiral.”

“Yes, I know,” she huffed. She threaded her hands in Seven’s soft strands. “Any thoughts to add? Am I alone in this?”

The blonde returned to her ministrations over Janeway’s chest. “You and I will both be on this mission. He prefers to be with us, and serve under you once again. He is aware of the risks, but chooses to go regardless, knowing he can lend an invaluable insight into our conflict with the Collective. Such bravery reminds me of someone else I know,” she said, nipping at Kathryn’s ribs. “Further, he believes thwarting the Collective to be of critical importance. It is personal to him.”

“So you have no issues with this?”

“I also worry for his safety, but I can put aside that fear to support him in his decision. I know he gave great thought to it, which I deeply respect.”

Kathryn sighed. “God, you’re such a good parent.”

The ex-Borg smiled against Janeway’s abdomen. “ _We_ are good parents, Katie.” Seven shimmied down to settle her breasts against Kathryn’s legs. Gripping Janeway’s hips in her strong hands, she flexed them slowly while she dipped her head to kiss Kathryn’s thigh. “I wish to have sex now,” she said evenly.

“Oh really?” Janeway huffed breathlessly. “I’m glad you said something. I wasn’t picking up on your signals.”

The blonde beauty hummed, and moved her mouth to the other thigh. “I do enjoy your humor. Would you like to know something that amuses me?” She shifted her hands to clutch at Kathryn’s knees; she spread them apart without resistance. 

“Always,” breathed the Admiral.

“Perhaps it is a bit mean-spirited, but I am greatly amused at seeing others gaze upon you with want. Admiral Paris, for instance.”

“Seven,” she admonished.

“He desires you, Kathryn. I suspect he has for many years. It is quite apparent. As it is with Captain Chakotay.” Seven rubbed a hand up and down Janeway’s leg to sooth the bluntness of her words.

“Chakotay’s long over me,” she rasped.

“He is not,” the Borg said with surety. “Neither is your erstwhile betrothed. The myopically impatient Mark Johnson.”

“He thought I was dead,” Kathryn defended weakly.

Seven smiled devilishly against her hip and licked. “Irrelevant. He was foolish to doubt you. If his regard was truly worthy of your attentions, he would have waited for your return. _I_ would have waited,” she promised. She stroked her fingers slowly across Kathryn’s wetness. The petite woman bit her lip in response. “Do you believe me?” Seven asked. Janeway replied with a jerky nod. Spurred on, the blonde increased the pressure of her movements. 

“And you find all of this funny?” strained Kathryn, voice thready.

Seven inclined her head. “I find it amusing that all of these men desire you, but I _, a woman,_ am the one who holds the privilege of having you and making you come. I alone can love you like this.” She dipped her head and ran her tongue the length of Kathryn’s sex. The Admiral, who had been balancing on a knife’s edge for hours, gasped and cried out loudly, arching sharply. Distantly, she hoped the walls of their beach house sufficiently muffled the sound. Seven tightened the hold on Kathryn’s narrow hips to still her.

Janeway covered her eyes with a forearm and stifled a moan. Kathryn never thought she would find a vein of possessiveness in a partner to be such a turn-on. Perhaps it was the idea that Seven had been reared in an environment that saw no use for selfishness or individual ownership, resulting in an overall lack of interest from her ex-Borg in welding dominion over items, property, or ideas. That Seven felt a keen, bordering on lustful, sense of possession over Kathryn Janeway despite the Borg’s ingrained nature was intoxicating to the auburn Admiral. _Good lord, this woman_.

“I’ve wanted you all day, Honey,” Janeway whispered huskily, cheeks blazing red at the admission.

“As have I, Katie. You are mine, and I wish to remind you,” said the blonde deeply, grinning darkly at the gratifying texture of it all. When Seven lowered her head to set her mouth to her task ardently, all thought was gloriously wiped from Kathryn’s mind.

  
  
  
  


#  **III. And Not One but Hung Limp, Not One Was Left for [Her] to Conquer.**

Kathryn’s body had fought sourly against the return to her backbreaking schedule after the sublime interlude by the Atlantic. The persistent pressure behind her eyes sat heavy, seeping further across her face by way of sinuses and temples. She had only been back into her normal routine a week, yet aches were springing up all over her body, crying out to return to vacation as she sat up in bed.

“Computer, end alarm,” she mumbled, throwing her legs over the side and rolling her shoulders back with an audible crack. She blinked heavily and peered out of her bedroom window. The trees outside in the garden rustled gently in shadow. It was still dark. 

Weight shifted against the mattress behind her in a wave, with Seven rolling to link an arm around her hips. The blonde beauty kissed the small of her partner’s back, and nuzzled her face into the spot.

Janeway turned her head in profile. “You’ve got a little more time to sleep. It’s only half past five,” she said hoarsely. 

Kathryn could feel Seven’s eyelashes dust against the flat of her sacrum before the blonde drew a deep breath and rose to prop herself behind the Admiral. Janeway rubbed at her weary eyes and grunted. “Do you feel ill?” asked Seven, mouth against Kathryn’s shoulder.

“No,” she sighed. “I’ve got a meeting with the Fleet Council this morning on mission updates and then my Academy simulation until 19:00. Long day ahead. I think my body’s already protesting.”

“Hm,” Seven considered. “Then we will jog to work to warm up your muscles. We can wash at the facilities at Headquarters.”

“Honey,” Janeway groaned. “All I want is a large pot of coffee. I don’t know if a run is in me.”

“Fine. We will stop at the coffee shop near campus on the way.” Seven leapt out of bed, and grabbed an elastic band from the side table to throw her hair into a messy ponytail. “We will jog, Katie. It will be good for you,” she ordered, and padded off near their closet. Backlit by the overhead bulbs in their walk-in, Seven bent over to stretch her long limbs and back in preparation for the exercise. Naked. 

Kathryn tilted her head to the side at the vision. “Well, when you put it like that…”

Seven and Janeway typically charted an eight to ten kilometer route starting from their sky blue Victorian on the edge of Presidio Heights, winding through the Presidio itself, straight over the Golden Gate, rightward along the coast below Sausalito, and ending at Starfleet Headquarters, which stood proudly atop the foundations of the ancient Fort Baker. Though Seven could outrun Janeway, the ex-Borg always maintained a pace equal to Kathryn’s without complaint, pumping her long arms and legs by the smaller woman’s side slower than her body could allow. Just short of campus, the pair slowed their feet, easing into a walk to cool down. Setting out for coffee as planned, they turned down ‘Fleet Street,’ a quaint avenue of bars, eateries, and shops that had sprung up around the Academy to service the thousands of military officials living and working on the adjacent premises. It was 07:00 when the couple, sweat glistening on at least one of them, ambled into the entrance of Trade Coffee puffing pleasantly from the exertion.

“Good morning, Admiral! Black, Colombian blend?” greeted Vicki, the shop’s morning shift barista. Janeway, unsurprisingly, was a frequent patron of the coffee house and the young woman knew her order well.

“Please,” nodded Kathryn. The barista looked toward the blonde.

“The same,” submitted Seven in her characteristically clear monotone. Vicki nodded with a peppy “You got it!” and set to pouring.

Janeway grabbed a napkin from the dispenser on the countertop and dabbed at the moisture that had collected on her forehead, neck, and chest. “You’re working in-house today, right? So you have time to sit?”

“In-house,” confirmed Seven. “I am troubleshooting the Antaeus killswitch, though I am confident its systems are fully operational.” Kathryn raised her eyebrows in question. “Yes, I can sit with you,” confirmed the Borg.

“Here you go, Admiral,” said the young barista, passing the two women their mugs. “I’ll have a takeaway cup ready for you before you leave. Let me know if you need—”

“Oh my god! You’re _her_!” exclaimed a voice behind them.

Kathryn and Seven, cups in hand, drew twin breaths of foreboding and turned slowly toward to face a gleeful woman.

“I knew it!” the lady screeched. The middle-aged woman was dressed in civilian attire, with a purse stuffed to the brim over her shoulder, and mousy-brown hair fluffed high around her head. “You’re Kathryn Janeway!”

The petite Admiral smiled tightly. “Last time I checked.” Recognitions of this kind were not uncommon to Janeway, though the zeal with which this woman acted in spotting a celebrity (however much Kathryn loathed the term) was certainly unusual in the insulated community around Headquarters. Typically, Federation government employees, Academy personnel, and Starfleet officers left her well enough alone if they had no business with her. This woman, however, apparently knew no such tact.

“Goodness, I can’t believe it. Here I am grabbing breakfast for my Jeffrey — he’s a first-year cadet. Hoping for Command track,” she grinned, crossing her fingers, “And of all people, I run into you. I’m such a fan!” she gushed, thrusting forward a hand to shake. “Bonnie Gustafson.”

Kathryn reached out to clasp Bonnie’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Gustafson.”

Bonnie beamed. “Oh my lord, and you’re such a doll, too. Even prettier in person.”

Seven pursed her lips and cleared her throat. Bonnie started at the sound, peeling her eyes away from Janeway to regard the tall blonde. “Oh my, I didn’t mean to interrupt your morning,” the woman said. “I just got carried away. Ya see, I’m from Minnesota, a midwestern girl, too! And I gotta tell ya, you are such an impressive gal. Being thrown into the far space like that, and getting your crew home in a tenth of the time? I’ve read all the stories about you!”

Janeway smiled politely. Her ship's logs from Voyager had leaked to the press shortly after her arrival back on Earth. It had done nothing to tamp down her celebrity. “Well, thank you. It was certainly not as glamorous as others make it sound.”

“And so modest,” smiled the Minnesotan. “Well, I won’t keep you. I just hope my Jeffrey gets to serve under you one day. You inspired him to join the service.”

“I’m humbled to hear that. Best of luck to him,” she said, squeezing the woman’s arm as she and Seven walked to sit on the patio outside. Settling into their seats, Janeway crossed her legs and gave her partner a knowing look. “Well that hasn’t happened in a while.”

Seven’s cortical implant rose. “It happens all the time,” she said before drawing the rim of the cup to her mouth.

“Yes, but not around _here_ ,” contended Kathryn, swallowing the scalding liquid. Instantly, tingles of pleasure pinged through her nerve endings. She smiled, basking in the comfort of the first sip, muscles warm and languorous. Seven had, as usual, been correct; the run had greatly improved her disposition. “Maybe I should dye my hair black like Phoebe’s. I’d certainly be noticed far less if I did.”

“You will do no such thing,” commanded the blonde, eyes wide, lowering her mug to the table with seriousness.

“Oh? That would bother you, Honey?” she smirked.

“Your hair is entirely lovely as it is,” Seven said, reaching over the small cafe table to pet at the strands that had escaped Janeway’s helter-skelter ponytail.

The Admiral smiled at the attention. “So. I may be pretty late tonight with the simulation. Don’t wait for me to eat. I’ll just replicate something when I get home. Maybe that paneer dish you’ve programmed.”

Seven dropped her hand and looked away suddenly, in apparent deep contemplation of this prosaic information. “No need. I will leave a cooked plate for you in the warmer,” she mumbled distractedly.

“Thank you, Honey. I _am_ capable of fending for myself though,” Janeway quipped, taking another sip. Seven’s eyes roved over the largely empty street in front of them intently, oblivious to Janeway’s comment. The Admiral matched the direction of Seven’s gaze, but saw nothing that might trouble the younger woman along the vacant road. “What is it?” asked Kathryn, brow furrowed.

Seven shook her head. “It is nothing, I have only been—” she cut herself off and looked back at Kathryn. “You will see Icheb today, correct?”

She nodded. “Yes, he’ll be in my simulation. Why?”

Seven looked down, dipping her chin in thought. After a beat she shook her head and met the auburn woman’s gaze again, the odd consternation wiped from her expression. “Do not worry. It is a small matter. I will discuss it with him later.”

Kathryn grabbed Seven’s forearm in both of her slim hands, clasping around the laced metal circuitry tightly. “Seven. Is something wrong? Please tell me.”

Again, the Borg shook her head and answered, voice quiet. “As I said, I believe it is nothing, Katie. It is simply an inquiry I have for Icheb. I will discuss it with him when he leaves the barracks to stay with us over the weekend. I promise to tell you if the matter persists, but I do not wish to trouble you with it at present.”

Janeway pursed her lips and pushed a breath through her nose. Kathryn’s proactive nature itched underneath her fingertips and pressed against the source of her voice in her throat, begging her to argue against Seven’s reticence. Instead, her heart clenched inside its casing and her unwavering faith in Seven’s judgment overrode her searching temperament. “Okay,” she acceded finally after a long pause. “If you’re sure.”

Seven looked at Kathryn with soft eyes and reached up to hold her beautiful face still flush from their exercise. Bringing their foreheads together, the blonde smiled gratefully. She seemed to have easily sensed the internal battle Kathryn had just waged against her own powerful instincts. “You are far too easy to love, Katie. Such trust we have.” Seven kissed the redhead sweetly, with more length than Janeway usually preferred in a public setting. The hour was early, however, and there would be few observers beyond Vicki and the prying Bonnie Gustafson if they were noticed. Public affection aside, the Admiral knew it would be a cold day in hell before she ever minded kissing Seven of Nine.

—

Though Seven had a workspace of her own within Starfleet Headquarters, she preferred to store personal items like her biosuits, shoes, and toiletries in Kathryn’s larger, amenity-laden office at the opposite end of campus. Technically, the ex-Borg was an unenlisted civilian contractor paid handsomely by the military organization to consult on several need-to-know projects dotted across the Federation, Kathryn’s Delta Fleet mission being one of them. Starfleet contractors were rarely granted their own offices on campus, but the Borg’s every condition for employment had been met by Starfleet four years ago in a bid to retain her talents, as other groups like the Daystrom Institute, the Vulcan Science Academy, and the Trill Science Ministry had been heavily recruiting her as well.

Wordlessly, the blonde followed the Admiral into the spacious Janeway facilities to grab her items for washing and dressing, pausing at the antechamber to greet Kathryn’s Earthside aide-de-camp, Lieutenant junior grade Samantha Wildman, whose abdomen was heavily swollen with her third child by her Ktarian husband, Greskrendtregk.

“Morning Admiral, Seven,” smiled the pretty pregnant woman, rising unsteadily from her chair.

“Nope, huh uh,” chided Kathryn, reaching over to place a firm hand on her assistant’s shoulder and forcing her back into the chair. “Don’t stand up on my account.”

The blonde Lieutenant rolled her eyes and smiled, placing a hand over her protruding stomach. “I’m pregnant, Admiral, not infirm.”

Janeway sighed. “Are you _sure_ you don’t want to go on leave sooner?”

“I’m sure,” sing-songed the Lieutenant, casting a rueful glance toward Seven. “How would this place run without me anyway?”

“With far less efficiency,” supplied the Borg.

Samantha alighted at the praise, then gestured toward the pair’s athletic attire with her chin. “How was your run?”

“Helpful,” Kathryn said, tossing her head back to drain the last of her coffee.

“As I said it would be,” commented Seven breezily.

Janeway smirked. “Yes, Honey, you always know best. I should never—”

“Oh good, you’re here! You’re haven’t been responding to comms,” panted Owen Paris, blustering into the open entryway, neck slightly reddened around the collar from his apparent brisk walk.

“Admiral? Something wrong?” Janeway glanced at the chronometer on the wall. “Our meeting isn’t for another hour.”

Paris heaved deeply, gathering his breath, and shook his head. “It _was_ in an hour. It’s been moved up. I’ve been trying to contact you, but now I see you haven’t got your combadge. Nechayev is being called away this afternoon to Jupiter Station. She can only meet now.” Owen cleared his throat, glanced at the blondes around her, and lowered his voice as if Kathryn alone could hear him. “Also, there’s been a development. Decisions have to be made.”

“Now?” responded Kathryn with alarm. She gestured a hand down her body, outfitted in her Starfleet-issued tank top, black spandex running shorts, and white trainers. Without prompting, Samantha fished out Janeway’s silver badge from her desk and handed it over. The redhead pinned the instrument to her tank and accepted the PADD Lieutenant Wildman held outstretched. She shot Owen a riled glance and threw up her hands. “Do I have time to shower and change? I’ve just come off a 9K!”

“Afraid not. They’re already waiting for you on the eighth floor,” replied the balding man, eyes skirting over Kathryn’s exposed skin a touch too long for the blondes in the room not to clock the impertinence.

Janeway scoffed and set down her empty coffee cup on Samantha’s glass tabletop. “ _Okay_ ,” she said with exasperation, moving up a hand to smooth down pieces of hair. “Of course I’m not angry with _you_ , Admiral. It’s just… of all days! Nechayev will no doubt reprimand me for appearing out of uniform.”

Owen waved a hand. “It’s fine, but we really have to go,” he urged.

Kathryn nodded and turned to kiss Seven goodbye. “See you tonight, Honey.”

“Good luck in the simulation,” she replied, popping an extra kiss on the petite woman’s cheek.

Kathryn turned to face her assistant and opened her mouth for a request. Before she could speak, Samantha reached behind her seat to grab a steaming mug set on the glass credenza at her back. Janeway’s expression was awash with gratitude as she received the extended cup. “You’re an angel. Forget what I said before. I’m never letting you leave.”

Samantha grinned, shooed the Admirals out of the door, and called out to her retreating form, “Don’t worry! Naomi will be old enough to replace me soon.”

Once in the semi-solitude of the corridors, Kathryn put a hand to Owen’s arm and dropped her head a bit to avoid excessive voice projection. “So, developments? What’s happened?”

The elder Paris nodded once, and leaned closer to her bowed head to whisper. “You know how we’ve been tracking increased movements along the borders? Well, a scout ship from Akaar’s fleet on the border between the Tekara Sector Block and the Beta Quadrant picked up highly unusual Borg activity, according to their CO. Though I bet you’ll be more familiar,” he added as an aside.

“Go on,” she prompted.

“Seems a large assimilation cube and its squadron of smaller tactical ships chose the wrong Quarran colony to attack,” he continued, the tap of his shiny boots echoing down the largely empty hallway. Kathryn’s rubber-soled trainers squeaked softly as she maintained stride with her taller colleague. 

“Not the Quarran homeworld?” she clarified.

“No. One of their newer outposts closer to the Beta border. And judging by the way things went on the smaller settlement, I doubt the Collective will be moving onto Quarra anytime soon. It seems your disruptor weapons worked like a charm when integrated with their shield grid.”

“You mean _Seven’s_ disruptor weapons,” she corrected. During their Delta exile, Seven of Nine had become quite adept at using Borg technology against itself, developing an entire arsenal of defensive and offensive weaponry to protect Voyager and its crew from any incursion by the Collective. The disruptors in questions were originally prototyped for, of all things, a birthday gift for Kathryn’s dearest friend and second officer, Commander Tuvok. By the time Kathryn had sufficiently angered the Collective’s arrogant sovereign enough to put the Borg on the offensive against Janeway’s marooned Federation starship, Seven had retrofitted the handheld disruptor technology to operate on a much larger scale; an entire planet’s shield grid, for instance. Rather handy indeed. “The technology is all hers. I just bartered with it.”

Owen flipped a hand. “Sure, point being it worked.”

“Of course it did,” Kathryn said not without a touch of pride.

“Oh, and fair warning. Nechayev is none too thrilled you took it upon yourself to trade proprietary technology to a non-Federation civilization. You may catch some guff for that,” he shrugged.

“They’re warp capable, sir,” she defended. “And anything I do upsets Alynna Nechayev, so I can’t be bothered to worry about it. Back to the Quarran. The shield worked. The weapons targeted the cubes and the squadron was destroyed?”

“Well, not exactly,” he said tilting his head. “At first, the weapons started blowing Borg vessels to hell. All the shield needed was one clean hit per ship. Boom. Boom. Boom. They fall like dominoes. Gone. Scout ship CO said she’d never seen anything like it. I’m not even going to pretend to understand how they work.”

“They hone in on each cube’s vinculum, which was previously impossible from an external missile. It works off of a—” she paused, taking in Owen’s flat expression, and waved a hand in front of her face to stop herself. “Continue.”

“So the smaller cubes are disintegrating left and right, while the control cube is doing its best to evade the shield grid. It takes a few grazes, but nothing direct. Then,” Owen scoffs shaking his head, “the damndest thing happens.”

“The smaller ships charged the grid and got themselves blown to kingdom come while the mothership got away,” she interjected. It was not a question.

Owen halted suddenly, put a hand on her shoulder, and turned her body to face him. “How the hell did you know that, Kathryn?”

“Because I’ve seen it before,” she replied cryptically.

He moved to grip one of her arms firmly. “But it makes no sense! Why would an entire flotilla sacrifice themselves for one cube? I mean, they’re _all_ gone, Kathryn. Had to be hundreds of ships destroyed, millions upon millions of drones. Gone in seconds. It goes against all Borg behavior we’ve witnessed before!”

She shook her head. “You’re thinking of this wrong. It wasn’t a sacrifice. It was an order.”

“An order? What species orders millions of their own to die, only to save a few thousand? I mean, all these fuckers do is acquire more lifeforms. It’s a numbers game. It’s their only goal,” he said, throwing up a hand.

“Pure, distilled ambition, yes,” she nodded. “But again, you’re thinking of this wrong. That ambition is not in the nature of Borg drones. That’s _her_. And I’ll bet you my commission that was her cube that got away. She ordered that genocide to save herself.”

Owen dropped his hands and rocked back on his heels. His face went ashen. “What kind of ruler exterminates her own subjects?” he whispered. “It’s— It’s just unthinkable.”

Kathryn merely pursed her lips and nodded. “Now you see who we’re dealing with.”

The rest of their journey to the Fleet Admiral Command Center was made in silence, with Owen Paris processing what he had just learned. Janeway understood his disquiet. Such images often kept her up at night while she held her former Borg partner against her chest with their former Borg son sleeping down the hall. Icheb and Seven had brought unfathomable joy to Kathryn’s life. That there were billions upon billions of people just like them, living out an enslaved existence under a venial despot made her inside roil with nausea. She could not bide it.

Owen and Kathryn proceeded into the conference room, one garbed in a crisp, regulation kit and the other decidedly out of proper dress. Fleet Admirals James Akaar, Edward Jellico, William Ross, and Alynna Nechayev were seated together around an oblong conference table, the latter of which raised an icy eyebrow at Kathryn, sliding a snide, lingering look over her scant attire.

“Admiral Janeway,” Nechayev greeted without warmth, eyes finally returning to the auburn woman’s face. “So kind of you to join us. Apologies for interrupting your daily calisthenics.”

Owen shot Janeway a furtive look and crossed the room to take his seat alongside his fellow top brass, leaving Kathryn to lower herself into a solitary chair across from the lot of them. The staging of the room gave Janeway the distinct impression that she was about to be interrogated. “Oh, don’t worry about that, Admiral. You didn’t,” she said as she casually crossed her legs.

“Kathryn, we’ve got a couple of things on the docket today,” began James Akaar with a tone far more genial than his colleague. “First off, a report from the USS Liliuokalani — one of my Miranda cruisers normally stationed on the outskirts of Klingon space.” He slid a PADD across the flat surface to her. “She scouted a Collective assault on a Quarran colony in the Tekara Sector. Some of your old stomping grounds. The Lili scanned 328 Borg vessels before the encounter; 327 bit the dust. It seems—”

“The squadron blitzed the shield to save the Queen in the flagship?” she finished, eyes scanning over the PADD. After a beat of silence, she raised her head to meet Akaar’s perplexed expression. “Admiral Paris filled me in.”

“What’s your read on this, Kathryn?” queried Jellico, Starfleet’s Commander-in-Chief. “Why this sudden shift in behavior from the Collective?”

She tilted her chin askew and raised both eyebrows, setting her tablet down on the table. “I can only speculate, but based on my experience I think my guess is a good one.”

“Well, don’t leave us in suspense,” interrupted Alynna.

Kathryn darted the other woman an irked look and nodded. “I think the tech I’ve shared with our Delta Quadrant allies has been working, and this massacre at the Quarran outpost is just the most recent example. The Collective has been racking up losses. A lot of them, I’d wager. I mean, 328 ships for a simple colony assimilation is a little overkill. She’s worried.” Janeway shook her head. “Obviously, we don’t have ships deep enough into the Quadrant to confirm that theory yet, but if I’m right, and I think I am, it would certainly explain the act of desperation the Lili observed. And it was indeed an act of desperation.”

“And you’re still of the opinion we should launch an offensive now, even with this new information?” asked Admiral Ross.

“I am. We should make our move as soon as possible,” she affirmed. “The Borg disruption technology is working for now, mostly because we’ve had an ace up our sleeve with a former member of the Collective on our side using her knowledge against them. But we’ll spend that advantage if we don’t act expeditiously. Given adequate time and enough skirmishes, the Borg will adapt, and our technology will become obsolete. We need to corner her before that happens.”

Alynna drummed her fingers on the table, drawing the attention to herself once again. She drew a breath. “Admiral Janeway, I’m still not clear as to the benefit of your strategy. What interest is it of the Federation to attack now, especially when the Borg seem intent on internal destruction? Shouldn’t we just allow them to exterminate themselves for as long as the weaponry works?”

Kathryn huffed a breath and collapsed back into her chair. “Admiral,” she said with shock, brow furrowed. “That would mean Starfleet would be complicit in the genocide of a species. The disruptor technology Voyager shared with our Delta allies was only meant for defensive purposes — to prevent assimilation in case of an offensive attack. A stopgap. But now we’ve _seen_ how the Queen is choosing to deal with this roadblock to her goals, and her solution is mass murder. I don’t think Starfleet or the Federation should be a party to letting this annihilation continue, particularly when we have a solid strategy to disable the Collective once and for all. Every person in this room has been on board with this plan since its inception three years ago. You included, ma’am.”

Nechayev’s eyes turned icier still. “I am well aware of your drone emancipation scheme, Admiral Janeway. And let’s be clear. _We_ didn’t share that disruptor technology. _You_ did. I’m merely reevaluating the plan of action, given the recent information we have at hand.”

Janeway lowered her proverbial bristles and nodded. “Fair enough, Admiral,” she conceded.

“Let’s review that strategy once more, Kathryn, for all our sakes,” requested Jellico, cutting into the thick tension between the two women. “I know we’re all well acquainted with the plans, but given the Quarran development, it would be wise to not let the obvious go unsaid. Please.”

“Yes, sir,” she agreed, taking a deep breath. “The Vesta and Defiant-class ships from Delta Fleet, fully outfitted with slipstream drives and backups, will rendezvous with the rest of the armada at Deep Space K-7 outside Klingon territory. From there, we’ll proceed through the Tekara Sector Block to the Vyntadi Sector, a kind of Delta Quadrant midpoint near Borg space. We’ll then dock at Rhea Station in the Benthan System and prepare for engagement.”

“And you’re certain we can trust these Benthans?” questioned Akaar.

Janeway inclined her auburn crown. “They’ve given me no reason to doubt them, and my sources tell me the joint construction of Rhea between the Benthan Protectorate and the Federation Corps of Engineers has resulted in a fruitful partnership. My Benthan Guard contact, Commander Avik, has also pledged a dozen fighter ships to our mission. Their coaxial warp drives should be sufficient to keep up with our slipstream if need be.”

Akaar appeared satisfied by this answer, and extended a hand in invitation for her to continue.

“After we’re all squared at Rhea, we’ll set up the grid, which works off the same principle as the one the Quarran have, and wait for the Queen.”

“How are you so confident that she’ll come for you?” asked Alynna.

Kathryn lifted a shoulder. “We’ll make some noise once we get to the Vyntadi Sector, but trust me. Once she knows I’m in her backyard, she’ll come.”

“And why is that?” Nechayev pressed.

Janeway sighed. “I frustrate her. Such an emotion is anathema to the Borg’s existence. So much so that she can’t help but try to destroy the source of it. The prospect of seeing me dead or assimilated is too irresistible for her.” Kathryn crossed her arms. “It wouldn’t be her first attempt.” The auburn Admiral left out the other reason the drone empress would wish to pursue her: Janeway had something, or rather someone, the Queen wanted.

“So the grid is in place…” prompted Owen, drawing the conversation back to the topic at hand.

“Yes—”

“Hold a minute,” interrupted Ross, lifting his palm in a halting gesture. “You just described to us how abhorrent you find the Queen’s reaction to the use of our disruptor grids. Yet one is included in your battle plan?”

“Right,” agreed Kathryn, pointing at the man with juxtaposed index and middle finger in her characteristic manner, as if every statement made with the gesture is done so with a ‘Scout’s Honor.’ “We’ll set up the grid, put the transwarp blocking defenses online, and then disable the weaponry systems.” She leaned in. “But herein lies the subterfuge. The Borg won’t know the missiles are non-operational.”

“How can you possibly guarantee the Borg won’t detect that the systems are dormant?” interjected Nechayev, voice rising with indignance.

“Because Seven of Nine devleoped the cloaking technology,” she stated simply. In her periphery, she caught Akaar smirking. After a beat, she continued. “Once the Queen’s ship is within range of the net, the Fleet will warp into place, effectively flanking the Borg ships from behind and pressing them closer toward the net. Fish in a barrel.” She placed her hands sideways on the table surface and pressed them toward the Admirals across from her, palms exposed, to pantomime the flank maneuver. “We anticipate weapons volley at that stage. In fact, we’re sort of counting on it. We’ll need enough of a distraction in order to sneak a small shuttle into the mothership. Once on board, a small team will infiltrate the Queen’s central vinculum, deploy the Antaeus killswitch, and watch the Collective’s shared consciousness fracture into several trillion pieces, freeing the drones from their captivity.” Kathryn rubbed her fingers along her forehead. “Though it’s all easier said than done, I grant you.”

“Is the killswitch completed?” asked Jellico.

“Very nearly,” she said. “Seven is in the final testing stages of development.”

“And these freed drones? What happens to them?” asked Akaar.

“The Antaeus program instructs them on how to properly de-assimilate themselves in the short term, and then compels them to proceed to their homeworlds, or failing that, one of several Deep Space Stations we’ve set up for the reclamation process. Admiral James has been in contact with Station Commanders to facilitate the preparations.”

Nechayev narrowed her eyes at Kathryn. “It is curious, Admiral. You’ve constructed quite a risky venture for yourself just to recapture some drones.”

Janeway tamped down her desire to lash out, and forced herself to recall Alynna’s experiences. The older Admiral possessed a deep hatred of the Borg born out of losing her husband and roughly eleven thousand Starfleet personnel under her command at the Battle of Wolf 359. Forcing sympathy into the forefront of her mind, Janeway placed both of her palms flat on the table, and looked at the other woman with all the conviction her expression would allow. “It’s not just _some_ , Admiral Nechayev. No one is aware of the exact figures, but we estimate the Collective is 40, perhaps 50 _trillion_ members strong. That’s 50 trillion lives we can save, using only a few thousands Starfleet officers in the effort. The risk is far outweighed by the potential rewards. We are duty bound to try.”

Silence permeated the room while Janeway’s words sunk in, her passion leaving little room for further argument. “What do you suggest for a date of launch?” croaked Jellico, finally breaking the stillness.

“I assume we’ll need the remainder of the summer for SRDU to finish the slipstream orders and prep the Fleet; select and brief the crew complements. Ten weeks perhaps, if we move at warp? And I suggest that we do,” she submitted.

“Let’s pad the date with a couple of weeks to be safe. October 1, we launch,” the Commander-in-Chief responded. “Okay, Kathryn. There’s a hell of a lot of moving parts, but I hope to God you can pull this off. Dismissed.”

The stodgy group immediately obeyed, rising out of their seats and filing out of the room. Owen gave her a pat on the back with a quiet, “Good work, Kathryn,” as he exited. Janeway collected her PADD and empty mug, unbelievably eager to wash the grime of dried perspiration from her body in the Academy showers after such a long delay. She rolled her neck, already mentally exhausted from the gruelling meeting, but knowing she had a full day of nervous cadets with which to contend. As she exited the room, whom but Alynna Nechayev stood in her path in the corridor. She pushed an exasperated breath from her lips before her good manners could intervene.

“Ma’am,” Janeway greeted through clenched teeth.

“Despite what you make think, I do admire your bravery,” the older woman revealed. “And I’ll be the first to congratulate you if you’re finally able to kill the Devil.” Alynna shifted her body closer into the petite Admiral’s personal space, and lowered her brow. “But I sincerely hope you’re taking into consideration how your private affections for wayward, de-fanged drones may be gravely affecting your judgment.”

Kathryn felt her eyes flame; she swallowed hard against the urge to curse the woman. “Your concerns have been noted,” she hissed through tight lips. The auburn Admiral implored herself to again remember Nechayev’s deceased husband, and not dwell on how deeply the woman had just insulted Seven and Icheb.

Nechayev stepped back and lifted her chin. She cast a final perusal of Janeway’s bare legs. “I’m not your enemy, Admiral. Try to remember that,” she whispered before clicking away.

  
  
  
  


#  **IV. Soon the Sun's Warmth Makes Them Shed Crystal Shells.**

Janeway’s diplomatic simulation had run for the remainder of her day after the morning strategy session with the Admiralty, as expected. She had diligently fine-tuned the negotiation drill over the three years she had been charged with executing it, added new parameters and levels of difficulty with each new iteration. This year, she had tasked the cadets with solving a dispute between a holographic Maje of the Kazon-Nistrim (based on no one in particular, of course) and a Hirogen Alpha (in, again, a _totally_ original representation of the species) over rights to resources and hunting grounds in a neutral system uninhabited by intelligent life. Kathryn had been pleasantly surprised by the performance of the cadets, and, seeing as hers was the last simulation the Science and Medical cohort would have to endure before their graduation, offered to take the lot of them out for drinks afterwards.

Janeway leaned up against the bar waiting to order a second round in an establishment a few short steps from the cafe where she had started her day with Seven. Her first drink, a shot of whiskey, had been downed in sync with a circle of jovial, starry-eyed cadets. Icheb, who had likewise excelled in his earlier negotiation, had quickly taken leave of her side after the first round was finished, understandably eager to put a little distance between himself and his famous adoptive mother in front of his classmates. Kathryn was sympathetic, having been herself the progeny of a well-known Admiral as a young cadet, and had hastened away to the bar to let the younger folks enjoy themselves in their huddles and booths along the walls.

The cadre of Admirals who observed her training drill for grading purposes had all politely declined to attend the impromptu gathering, save Rear Admiral Anatoly Kuznetsov, who was slouched against the copper countertop next to her. As his name suggested, Anatoly was a Moscow native with a pronounced Russian timbre to match. A bear of a man a handful of years older than her, Kuz stood thick at a towering two meters, with a wiry beard and close-cropped auburn hair, the shade virtually identical to Kathryn’s. Janeway thought he looked a bit like her Academy classmate and old paramour Will Riker, if the USS Titan Captain put on about forty pounds of muscle and had spent his childhood splitting Siberian pine logs for his family dacha outside Norilsk.

The pair of Admirals no doubt presented a comical figure standing together, one a rather dainty, petite woman and the other a hulking mass of a man, with their interchangeable hair color and matching crimson-accented starched kits like some freakish sibling duo. Kathryn smiled up at her colleague as he raised a fresh shot of vodka to his lips. He drained it without effort.

“How many is that for you, Kuz?” she asked, tossing her loose locks over her shoulder.

Anatoly slammed the thick glass to the bar, rim down, and exhaled. “Only my second, but you have no need to worry for me, Yekaterina. Mamushka put the stuff in my milk when I was a child. Is like water to me,” he smirked, gravelly voice heavily accented.

Kathryn smiled. “No judgment. I’m more impressed than anything else.”

Kuznetsov cracked the knuckles of his hefty digits. “This is the proper reaction.” He looked toward the bartender, and called, “Handak, two more for my Solnishka and myself.” Kathryn had learned ‘Solnishka’ was an affectionate slavic term for a woman meaning Sun. Kuz noted it was especially appropriate for Kathryn since it was frighteningly easy for others to be drawn irretrievably into her powerful orbit. Coming from the dry-humored Kuznetsov, it was difficult for Janeway to be certain if this was meant as a compliment or an indictment. Adding further confusion to her reckoning, ‘Anatoly’ itself meant ‘sunrise’ in Russian. Go figure.

Once the shots were delivered, the two clinked the glasses together in amicable custom. “To you, my friend,” said Kathryn. “Thank you for all your help in the simulation today.”

Kuz nodded. “Nostrovia,” he said simply and downed the liquid. After a beat to process the caustic liquor, the man leaned forward against his elbows onto the bar and lowered his gruff voice. “So. I am hearing rumblings of a mission to your Quadrant, yes?”

Janeway furrowed her brows. “You haven’t been briefed?”

Anatoly shook his head and tsked. “No, no, Katya. They do not like to inform us lowly Rear Admirals of these secret plans until _absolutely_ necessary.”

Kathryn rolled her eyes. Though Anatoly had the true measure of the Admiralty in his barb, that the group was just as stratified and hierarchical as all the ranks below it combined, she did not think that pip-differentiated striation applied in this case. “I doubt that’s the reason. We only confirmed the strategy and launch date this morning. The Fleet Council will probably host a detailed briefing in the next few weeks with the full Admiralty.”

“I will be interested to hear this.” He shrugged. “Perhaps I volunteer for this mission.”

“Kuz, come on,” she said, putting a hand on his muscled forearm. “It’s going to be very high risk. I hadn’t even planned to request another Admiral for it. I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You are not asking, Yekaterina. I am merely stating, after I am fully briefed on the details, maybe I offer my labor. In truth, serving under The Captain Janeway in the sector that made her famous has a certain appeal for my ego,” he said, bumping her shoulder with his elbow.

“It sounds a lot more exciting in the tabloids than it is in real life.”

He lifted a boulder-like shoulder. “Perhaps. But unless you have exaggerated in your ship’s logs, I think not. Personally? I like my missions with a little risk.”

“‘A little’ may be an understatement in this case,” she hedged, Alynna’s warning ringing in her head despite her best efforts to dismiss it.

“We shall see.” His thick digits dug through the inside pocket of his uniform jacket, pulled out an old-fashioned lighter and rolled cigarette, and promptly brought the stick to his lips to light.

Kathryn’s eyes popped wide. “Kuz! Where the hell did you get one of those?”

The Russian’s chest thundered with deep laughter. “They are not too difficult to find in this city, Solnishka.” He drew deeply on the small cylinder and puffed out the gray smoke. “But it is only an herbal cigarette.”

Janeway rolled her head skyward, annoyed at her own stupidity. Of course it was not a nicotine cigarette. The herbal variety that Kuz apparently liked to smoke was a facsimile of the ancient cancer sticks, a healthy substitute of the original. While rare, they were not unheard of.

“I would think a traditionalist girl like you would not be shocked to see these, no?” he mumbled around the cigarette.

“Well, you’re right on that score. My uncles always had a few loose in their keeping. My sister and I used to raid their coat pockets when we were teenagers to find them.” Kathryn smiled at the trail of smoke leaking out from the tip of the cigarette, flashing to an image of her jet-black haired, adolescent sister puffing on the front porch in the dark at her side.“I haven’t seen one in years.”

Kuznetsov took the stick out of his mouth, paused to look at it, and passed it over to Janeway without a word. Kathryn sucked in a deep breath through her nose, considering the smoldering object in front of her.

“Oh, what the hell,” she said reaching for the cigarette. Taking a deep drag, she felt a rush of memories fill her insides along with the smoke. She remembered twin sets of knobby, pale knees dusted with dirt, vapors curling around their bare feet kicking back and forth over the porch ledge. She recalled light shoves and stifled giggles so as not to alert their avuncular father to their mischief while he read in his study at the far wing of the farmhouse. “Man, this really takes me back,” she said wistfully after exhaling.

Anatoly grinned at her. “Bozhe moi! You surprise me, little Katya. You would smoke in this Starfleet bar, your cadets and your son in this proximity?”

Janeway eyed the object in her clasped fingers. “There’s nothing damaging in it. And _you’re_ smoking in here too, Anatoly.”

He twisted a finger by his temple. “Yes, but I am the Russian with screws loose. You are the famous Admiral Janeway, Voyager hero, hm? Face of Starfleet. Conventional,” he said pointing his hand rigidly flat toward an invisible morality in front of them. “Straight and narrow.”

“Kuz,” she deadpanned, raising her left hand to expose her gold-banded ring finger. “I’m married to a woman. And a former Borg at that. Neither straight nor narrow.”

Kutnetsov barked a booming laugh. “Yes, yes, I know this. And I am married to a man who paints nude bodies on his canvases. What a pair we make.”

She laughed in kind. “How is Jamal, by the way?”

“Annoyed with my work hours. Otherwise, he prepares for a new gallery show next month. You should attend.”

“If I’m still here, I will.” She handed him back the much-shorter cigarette. “Better finish this before I do.”

“Hm,” he agreed, taking a final few drags. He stamped out the butt into the bottom of his glass. “Nature is calling, Solnishka. I will return shortly,” he said before ambling off toward the restrooms across the venue.

In her solitude, Kathryn’s thoughts wandered back to her younger sister, Phoebe. They had not spoken in a couple of weeks. She would have to give her a call tomorrow, perhaps even make plans to visit their Indiana homestead before the mission launch in October. It would be good to see her and their mother at home, though she would not be able to reveal to them where she and Seven would be going. Aside from the classified nature of the work, something told her Gretchen Janeway would be livid if she knew her daughter had volunteered to go _back_ to the Delta Quadrant, this time with the aim of provoking the Collective into a confrontation.

“Uh, excuse me,” slurred someone to her left. She turned to heed the owner of the voice whose hand was tapping her shoulder. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he repeated unnecessarily and smiled roguishly at her. 

The shoulder-tapper was a sandy-haired cadet with a handsome face and impish hazel eyes. She did not recognize him from her earlier simulation, and deduced he must be in a different class from Icheb’s. Perhaps an Operations track student or a younger year, though he had shucked his uniform jacket so she had no way of knowing by sight. She scanned his lanky form from foot to face nonetheless and raised an eyebrow at his imposition. “Can I help you, Cadet?”

“Yes, I am very much hoping you can. You see, I noticed you standing here all by yourself and thought you looked very familiar.” He grinned and stumbled into the bar as he leaned closer to her.

Her eyebrows inched further toward her hairline. “Did you?”

“Yes, yes I did,” he nodded emphatically. “Ha-have we met before, ma’am?”

“No, Cadet, I don’t think we have,” she said wryly, remembering Bonnie Gustafson from earlier that morning. Twice in one day? Was she wearing a sign?

“Are you sure?” he slurred.

“Quite.”

He shrugged off the error. “Honest mistake. I thought I would come over here and ask to buy you a drink anyway,” he garbled, lifting an unsteady hand to the bartender, Handak, in signal.

“I appreciate the gesture, but I’m good,” she said, putting a hand on her hip, and shaking her head surreptitiously at the Ktarian barkeep reaching for a bottle of vodka.

“Well, ah,” he scrubbed a hand over his cheek and glanced down at her body. “You are certainly _looking_ good, ma’am, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Kathryn shook her head, dumbfounded by this kid’s forwardness. She felt more than a smidge offended by the whole interchange, but, fortunately for him, she was in a good mood and the boy reminded her enough of a young Tom Paris to be vaguely amused by the ill-conceived come-on against her better sense.

“Rast!” yelled a young Bajoran cadet, who had just power-walked across the floor to grab at the sandy-haired boy’s arm. “What the hell are you _doing_ , man?” he asked through clenched teeth, darting a frantic look in Janeway’s direction.

Cadet Rast smiled casually back at his comrade and patted his palm on the anxious Bajoran’s chest. “Relax, Dixon. I think I’m getting somewhere,” he stage-whispered.

“You’re really, really not,” Janeway said flatly. She glanced over toward the corner of the room, and noticed Anatoly had been stopped to chat with some three-piped Commander of his acquaintance when leaving the restroom.

“Let it go, Rast. Prophets, do you know who she _is_?” Dixon hissed in his ear.

“I _know_ ,” he drew out slowly, “that she is a fine looking woman in need of a drink.” He looked back at Janeway and winked. Kathryn pressed her lips together to stave off a smirk brought on more by incredulity than amusement.

Dixon wearily put a hand over his face, fingertips clenching at his temples. “Oh my god,” he groaned. “You are such a fucking idiot, man.”

Rast lazily pushed away his friend, bored by the reprimand, and returned his full attention to the Admiral. “Listen. I’m not sure if you heard that just now, but I meant what I said. You are very beautiful, and I would like to get to know you better,” he shrugged grandly, as if it were ridiculous to deny such a sensible request.

Janeway drew a cleansing breath. “Cadet. I’m about twenty years your senior and outrank you by roughly ten clicks.”

Rast grinned and wagged a finger. “Now, now, now see? That doesn’t put me off, as it were, ma’am. That’s part of the appeal, you showing me what’s what.” He leaned a touch closer. “And I’d do _anything_ you tell me to.”

Kathryn raised her eyebrows and nearly snorted. “Well, I must admit this has never happened to me in quite this way. So, congratulations to you for that I suppose.”

Rast clenched his fist and jerked his forearm down in a firm, celebratory motion. “ _Yes_.”

“That doesn’t mean it worked, Mister Rast,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

“Hm,” he hummed with put-on seriousness. He leaned back a bit and crossed his arms over his chest, eyes never leaving her mein. “Can I ask you how I can improve, ma’am? What, in fact, _would_ work?” Christ, he really was a young Tom.

“For me? Nothing. For any of these other ladies in this bar? I’d wager respect and a genuine interest in their person.”

He put a fist to his jaw in a mockery of a contemplative individual and nodded. “Mm Hm.” He pointed a finger in her direction. “But what if I told _you_ that I respect you and have a genuine interest in yourself?”

Kathryn turned to regard the Bajoran. “Does your friend have an off switch?”

Dixon smiled back anxiously. “Seriously, Rast, give it up. She’s being super cool about this,” he whispered, tugging again at his compatriot’s arm.

“Katya,” greeted Kuznetsov, finally appearing at her side to form the picture of discrepant, redheaded twins once more. “You have made friends?”

Rast and Dixon straightened and tensed at the sight of the tall, brawny Anatoly looming over them.

“Ah yes, Admiral Kuznetsov. This is Cadet Dixon and Cadet Rast,” she introduced, gesturing genially toward the young men. “Mister Rast was just propositioning me for sex before your return.” Dixon choked off a squeak.

Kuz frowned and considered the bold young man. “You know, Cadet Rast. My dear dedushka used to tell me when I was a little boy that if I was going to be stupid, I better be tough.” Anatoly pulled a second cigarette from his jacket and lit it at his mouth. Blowing the new smoke directly in Rast’s face, he queried, “I wonder how tough you are, Cadet.”

Rast coughed a bit nervously and waved away the smoke. “That is choice advice, sir. I’m going to use that.”

“Yes. See that you do, tupoy,” Kuz replied with an eyeroll and handed Kathryn the freshly-flamed stick. He turned away toward the bar to provide her space to finish off the young man.

“You have a genuine interest in me. Is that right, Cadet?” Janeway asked, taking a fresh drag.

Rast’s eyes grew wide, watching intently the sight of her lips around the cigarette. He nodded dumbly.

“Genuine interest. Hm. Do you even know my name?” she asked, flicking a bit of ash to the grimy bar floor.

“Um, Katya?” he asked, voice uncertain. “Isn’t that what he said?”

“I’m Kathryn Janeway,” she said, eyes boring into him.

“Oh,” he said, lips tight in a circle. “Oh, shit. As in Voyager Janeway. Got it. Wow. That’s you then.” He nodded nervously. “Fuck me. That, um, that would explain why you look _crazy_ familiar.” Dixon slapped a palm to his forehead.

“Yeah, that might be it,” she said sarcastically.

“Well you’re incredible, Admiral. A real hero. Honestly. And may I say the holo-images do not do you justice,” Rast smiled crookedly.

Kathryn shook her head and took another drag. “You’ve got courage, I’ll give you that. Or maybe you really are tough.”

“Okay, that’s enough, dipshit. Let’s _go_ ,” Dixon demanded, grabbing both of his friend’s shoulders.

“So that’s a hard no then?” Rast asked a final time, twisting in Dixon’s hold and reaching out for Janeway desperately.

Kathryn lifted a hand and patted Rast’s cheek with a light smack. “Oh, you couldn’t handle me, Cadet,” she smirked saucily.

Rast’s eyes rolled back into his head; he clutched at his chest and collapsed dramatically backward into a wall of fellow cadets, fanning himself with the other hand. “She’s ruined me for other women, Dix. Oh God, she’s killed me!”

  
  
  
  


#  **V. One Eye Is Weeping From a Twig's Having Lashed Across It Open.**

Seven of Nine had found the integration of human emotions to be the most vexing aspect of her existence after Kathryn Janeway severed her from the Borg’s Collective consciousness. Other human qualities like the ownership of one’s opinions, the development of personal preferences, and the assertion of free will all came easily to Seven. Emotion, however, was another matter entirely. At first, she had attempted to study emotion as she would any scientific or mathematical problem, breaking down the concept meticulously into small fragments to better parsel out its nature and function. A cosmic watchmaker she was in these moments, using the fine instrument of her reason to observe the turn of Determination’s toothed gear, or note the incessant ticking of Anger’s second hand. When she attempted to explain her empirical approach to understanding human emotion to others, she was often met with confusion or perplexed amusement. The ex-Borg understood these reactions. Experiencing emotion was instinctual to humans, she knew, as involuntary as breathing. Seven of Nine had no such luxury. To her, it was work.

Kathryn, as she was in most things, had been different. She had listened intently to Seven’s descriptions of what she experienced, encouraging the Borg’s thought processes in her soothing manner. She even submitted advice as well. “Using a framework to understand something is helpful, Seven, but it’s important to remember the nature of the thing you’re studying and adjust accordingly,” Kathryn told her. “Humans tend not to dissect feelings. They just come over us like a wave. We can only feel them and ride it out.”

This had been by far the most useful guidance Seven had received on human emotion that early into her severance, unsurprisingly delivered to her by her favorite human. Some time later, she reflected on that conversation after she realized the depth of her feelings for her conversant: the love of her life had been unknowingly instructing Seven on how to love. Fitting. And soon enough, loving Kathryn became as instinctual as breathing to Seven as well, though she found the Captain had been slightly incorrect in her explanation of feeling. Seven’s wave had never abated for Kathryn.

Love, however, was certainly not the first emotion that had come to Seven without effort. That distinction went to Pride. Seven of Nine almost immediately felt pride upon waking from her Collective slumber — pride in her work, pride in her intellect, pride in her role on Voyager, pride in her Captain. It was an effortless calculation for her to assign value to a person, place, or idea and derive immense self-satisfaction if she had a hand in its worth.

Despite her familiarity with Pride, she had never experienced the feeling in such quantities as she did today, the morning of her adopted son’s Starfleet Academy graduation. Pride saturated completely through her being as she watched Icheb walk confidently across the stage to receive his degree, accept handshakes from the Admiralty overseeing the proceedings, and be pinned with his first pip by none other than Admiral Janeway herself. Kathryn was doing quite an impressive job maintaining her professionalism in the action, and not letting slip across her features what Seven knew to be overwhelming affection for the young man as the Admiral stood there in her dashing dress whites.

Seven, for her part, could not restrain her beaming smile from her seat in the audience as she clutched securely the hand of the tranquil Phoebe Janeway. Seven rarely initiated physical affection with anyone, save Katie, but she had intuitively grabbed the younger Janeway’s hand during the ceremony, motivated by the need to have Phoebe’s calming countenance suffuse her mood. Gretchen, the Janeway family matriarch seated on Seven’s opposite side, was silently dabbing away tears with one of her hand-stitched kerchiefs, and patting the blonde’s knee with a shaky hand. Seven reached down with her free hand to hold Gretchen’s, forming a chain of support across the trio of women. Yes, Seven quite liked the Janeway Collective.

Afterwards, the family huddled together along the wall of the grand rotunda of Starfleet Headquarters where the commencement’s reception was being hosted. Music, loud chatter, and laughter bounced off the marble flooring and glass walls of the large vestibule as countless families and well-wishers bumped elbows and shared smiles over little plates of hors d'oeuvres and flutes of prosecco. The Janeways, minus Phoebe’s husband Stephen, who was watching their twin boys in Bloomington, were planted in a corner as far away from the crowd as they could manage in the congested space, waiting for Icheb to find them. Despite their surreptitious location, Seven still noticed event attendees darting wide-eyed glances toward her wife, pointing, whispering, and grinning at the diminutive Admiral as they shuffled by. Kathryn had grown accustomed to stares and gawps from strangers, and largely ignored the phenomenon now. Seven did not.

Finally, the newly commissioned cadets all spilled into the venue with the young Brunali finding his clan immediately. Kathryn and Seven both sprang forward, the former throwing her arms around the young man and kissing his face repeatedly, and the latter holding him firmly by the shoulders.

“You have done _very_ well, Icheb,” Seven said staring into her son’s eyes, imploring him to believe in his own self-worth with the intensity of her gaze. “You are the first Brunali to ever become a Federation citizen, and now you are the first former member of the Collective to graduate from Starfleet Academy. There is no one else who can match this achievement.”

“And first in his class, too!” cried Gretchen behind them.

“We’re so proud of you, Sweetheart,” said Janeway with liquid eyes, tugging the boy’s head down again to kiss his cheek. 

Icheb blushed through the plaudits from the women and hugged both his mothers with a small smile stretched across his face. “Thank you, Majka,” he whispered to Seven when they embraced. The Borg’s heart twisted in her chest at the endearment. ‘Majka’ was the feminine form of the Brunalese word meaning ‘most beloved mentor,’ a deeply important individual in the life of a young Brunali. If at all possible, the love and pride Seven carried in her chest for Icheb doubled in size.

The sweet moment was short lived as Gretchen Janeway quickly stepped forward to shower the boy with her own affections in a manner nearly identical to her eldest daughter. The placid, introverted Phoebe settled for a standard embrace.

“Where is Stephen?” inquired the young man after he broke away from the raven-haired Janeway.

“Stuck home keeping Eddie and Tony,” Phoebe replied. “He was really sorry to miss it. Also, I sort of promised the boys you’d come see them soon, so you’re going to have to do me a solid there, kiddo.”

“We are visiting in September before our launch, correct?” he inquired, turning toward the Admiral for confirmation.

“What launch?” blurted Gretchen, darting out a hand to squeeze at her Starfleet daughter in alarm.

Kathryn grimaced and sighed, waving off the inquiry. “We’ll talk about it later, okay? This is Icheb’s day.”

“Katie Elizabeth Janeway,” the elder Janeway demanded deeply, tone brokering no argument.

“I’m serious, mom. I’ll discuss it with you tomorrow, but I just want today to be about Icheb,” Kathryn responded, standing her ground. She leaned over to kiss her mother’s temple in an effort to soften her command.

Gretchen narrowed her eyes, not liking the answer one iota no matter the affection. Seven had to stifle a smirk at the sight. Gretchen and Kathryn were so alike in both mannerism and appearance that it often seemed the two were arguing with an older or younger version of themselves, made all the more comical by their equally willful natures. Phoebe, contrarily, was built and mannered like her father — tall and lanky with his dark, studious eyes and halcyon demeanor. The bright smile and accompanying trademark smirk, however, was something all of the Janeway women shared. “Tomorrow then,” Phoebe interjected, ever the peacemaker. “Let’s go to dinner now, hm?”

That evening, long after the rest of the family had departed, and the couple’s four-story Victorian home was only occupied by themselves and Icheb, the blonde Borg settled into the balcony furniture alongside the recent graduate as the city lights twinkled into view.

“You are still hearing them?” asked Icheb, breaking their silent gazing with a subdued murmur. Kathryn was far out of earshot, washing up in the shower upstairs.

Seven pursed her lips. “Yes,” she nodded, after a beat. “Only seldom, but it has been occurring with more regularity.” Icheb wrinkled his brow in troubled thought, but did not speak. “And you have still not heard them?” asked Seven.

“No,” he admitted, shaking his head. “But I gave my cortical implant to you. If the communications are being sent through subspace frequencies from the Collective, it is unlikely I would hear it.”

The blonde nodded. She had likewise come to this conclusion.

“You have not told the Admiral,” he stated.

“No,” she confirmed. “I will do so. Tonight perhaps.”

He nodded in accordance. “She will want to be informed, for more reasons than one. The communiques are likely related to the activity scouted in the Quarran system that you mentioned. It could be informative to our mission.”

“I concur.”

“Tell me again. What do the messages entail?” the Brunali queried.

Seven peered out toward the white-barked branches of the sweet bay trees in their garden, turned dark in the dusky shadows. “At first, the communications were merely rote thoughts of the Collective. Numerical commands, long strands of integers. Orders. You remember.” The young man nodded. “Not remarkable in and of itself, but disorienting to hear all of them again after so many years of a single consciousness.”

“It is difficult to imagine,” he agreed. “What proceeded?”

She inclined her head. “The messages became more clear, and in a manner I had never heard before. It was as if for a moment the Collective was speaking in a single voice. Directly to me. A personal hail.”

Icheb swiveled his head in profile to regard his adopted mother, and swallowed hard. “What did they say, Majka?” he whispered. The dark sweet bay leaves swayed and shivered against one another in the night wind, whispering secrets in their language. She turned to meet his concerned gaze, and took a deep breath.

“Return.”

—

Seven saw the red numbers of their bedroom chronometer flip over to midnight; she had undergone her weekly regeneration the evening before and typically found natural sleep difficult to come by in the nights following the reboot of her internal circuitry. To say nothing of the fact that her mind was still racing with her earlier conversations with Icheb and Kathryn. The auburn woman’s chest was pressed flush against her back, arm and leg draped possessively around Seven’s side like a warm blanket. The blonde nestled deeper against her wife’s lithe form and pulled Janeway’s arm circling her torso tighter against herself. Even in her slumber, Kathryn was a comfort to Seven.

The ex-Borg had finally told her wife about the voices of the Collective that had been contacting her sporadically over the course of several months earlier that night. Though the Admiral had reiterated her desire to have been informed of this development sooner, she had taken the news in stride, asking probing questions and discussing possible solutions to the mystery as any skilled scientist may do when presented with any inscrutable problem. Speaking with the auburn dynamo about the issue had been immensely beneficial to Seven, catalyzing her to think of alternative answers to the puzzle. The whole discussion had infused such relief into the ex-Borg that she was angry with herself for having delayed the conversation with her lovely wife for so many weeks. The blonde lifted her partner’s palm to her lips, kissing the unconscious woman in thanks. 

“It’s curious,” Kathryn had said earlier, brow furrowed as Seven recounted her experiences. “The Borg’s hive mind, this action in particular, tends to mirror the behavior of ants.”

“Formica rufa?” Seven asked, referencing the insect’s genus and species.

“Yes,” she nodded. “I hope that doesn’t insult you.”

Seven shook her head. “Explain.”

“Well, ants communicate with one another through sound and touch, yes, but they primarily use pheromones. They send these chemical signals out to alert the colony to danger. Where food can be found. Or if there are changes in the environment others need to know about. They leave these chemical trails that extend back to homebase so the other workers can find them.”

“You are suggesting the Borg are in danger and are perhaps calling for the assistance of the entire Collective? That they are leaving a trail for me?”

Kathryn, face only half visible in the fluff of her down pillow, shrugged. “Who knows? I think they certainly are in danger if what happened in Quarra has been replicated elsewhere in the Delta Quadrant as we suspect. They’re dying off in droves.” Janeway reached between their bodies underneath the cotton sheets and pulled the blonde closer. “What worries me is the idea that the Collective could be calling to you specifically, Honey. That _she_ could be setting a trap for you. A false trail. And here I am about to bring you right to her.” Kathryn’s eyes turned glassy and dropped down to Seven’s lips. “I don’t like it,” she rasped.

“Therein lies the odd nature of these hails, Katie. They seem to be from the voices of drones alone, which should be impossible. A drone’s every thought is laced with the consciousness of the Queen, and yet,” she shook her head, “I cannot hear her voice in them at all.”

“How can that be?” Janeway asked, voice hoarse with the exhaustion of the day.

“I do not know. As I said, I have never heard the voice of the Collective without her in it. The drones must have found a way to send out commands over subspace that carve out the frequency of the Queen’s vinculum,” she theorized, knowing the vinculum, or command module of the Queen’s ship, operated on a stronger frequency band than any cortical implant placed in a mere drone. “That is the only option that makes sense. Leaving us with the question of _why_.”

“Hm,” the Admiral hummed. “I could hazard a guess. It brings us back to our comparison to ant behavior.”

“Yes?” prodded the blonde.

“While a worker ant is selfless and exists only to benefit the community, a queen ant will often sacrifice swaths of her protectorate even to the detriment of her colony if it means saving herself. We saw our gal do just that in the Quarran system and when she was combatting our Unimatrix Zero rebellion a few years ago.”

The nordic beauty dipped her head in accession.

Kathryn’s slate blue eyes met hers intently. “So, maybe your former drone brethren have had enough, and they’re starting to cut her out of the loop. After all, worker ants can always smell a selfish queen.”

Behind her, Seven felt Kathryn shift and sigh in her sleep, as if again agreeing with her own assessment playing back through the blonde’s recollection. Seven closed her eyes and breathed deeply to ground herself again in the peaceful moment with her snoozing wife. Left unchecked, her mind often traveled toward darker musings if she did not batten her faculties against them. In those ominous reveries, Seven wondered if she would ever truly shake the bondage of her Collective subjugation, or make amends for the atrocities in which she was forced to participate. The marks of it were, after all, visible atop her skin for all to see — the arc of mechanization over her left eye asserted itself boldly as the most conspicuous imprint of her former enslavement. She touched the metal lash with her smooth fingertips, cataloging its ridges, fine screws, and microfilaments. No, the evidence of her servitude to the technological dictator would never fade away. In general, she did not mind this fact. Seven was not ashamed of her implants on their surface; rather, she found herself resenting the threat they represented to her current existence. They reminded her that the idyllic life she built on Voyager, in her career, and with Kathryn and Icheb on Earth could be but a fleeting moment — her placid Holocene valley in between two mountainous epochs of rapturous cataclysm. One day, the Queen might come again, greedy to reclaim her property. She might drag Seven of Nine back into her cold, sharp hell, even as the blonde would claw her nails deep enough to draw gray blood and wired sinew, thrashing violently against that dark destiny.

Seven took a sharp breath and again brought Kathryn’s beautiful hand to her mouth in comfort. She was glad the smaller woman was not awake to observe her disquiet.

The ex-Borg returned her thoughts to the subject at hand. The veracity of Kathryn’s selfish queen ant analogy rang true to her. Seven had been a member of the Collective through the transition of power from one Queen to another, though that instance had occurred at the death of the former Queen in a confrontation with the USS Enterprise. The idea that the drones might be staging a coup of sorts against a fully operational sovereign was, to the memory of Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero One, unprecedented. It simply was not the done thing.

  
Still, Seven could find no better explanation when analyzing together all the relevant data points. The situation’s improbability, however, was not what troubled her the most. No, the chief aspect of this clandestine galactic communication that forced Dread to churn ominously about its dial in her stomach was the thought that this individualized message to ‘Return’ was not simply a hail, but a _plea_.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “May no fate willfully misunderstand me  
> And half grant what I wish and snatch me away  
> Not to return.”  
> — _Birches_ , Robert Frost, 1969

#  **VI. It's When I'm Weary of Considerations, and Life Is Too Much Like a Pathless Wood.**

Commander B’Elanna Torres pushed up the wool sleeve of her stiff uniform to scrunch past her elbow before motioning the same arm to a wall of factory-sealed slipstream engines. “These are the smaller set for the Delta-class flyers assigned to the larger battleships. Backups here,” she pointed, walking briskly further down the cavernous storage facility, brunette locks bouncing excitedly with each quick step. The engineer’s 46-count order of slipstream drives was finally complete, ending her years-long SRDU project filled with backbreaking shifts, sleepless nights, and unimaginable stress. Today, she could finally show off her industrial masterpiece. A giddy, juvenile part of her wished she could scribble her signature and the stardate on the base of each engine tower as if she was some futurist Renoir, branding her canvas as its paints dried and set.

Seven of Nine extended her long stride to maintain pace with the buzzing Klingon. “These are for the Defiant-class destroyers,” the Borg said, indicating a section of drives on the opposite wall.

“Yep! Eight standard, and two backups.”

“And the difference between the Defiant and Nebula models are?” questioned Seven.

She danced over toward the other wall in a gleeful sidestep and gestured. “The Defiant versions have a reinforced titanium alloy plating. I’d put it around all the engines if I had unlimited time and credits, but,” Torres shrugged, “I could only outfit the Defiants and Intrepid-class units with them. I had to triage.” Though she did not mention this additional reason to her friend, B’Elanna also liked the aesthetic symmetry of giving Defiants and Intrepids, classes known for their durability, the extra grit around their warp cores. Engineering was a science to be sure, but the Klingon beauty also liked to think of her chosen discipline as an art. Her mechanical creative outlet.

“Understandable,” said the blonde. “Final inventory?”

Torres nodded and began walking the length of the massive corridor, pointing up as she did so. “Ten for the Delta flyers. Eight for the Defiants. Twelve mid-sized engines for our Nebula-class cruisers that survived the Dominion war. I’m pretty interested to hear how those dinosaurs hold up in a firefight, actually,” she added as an aside. “Four over here for our trusty Intrepids, Voyager included. And these hulking behemoths,” she said, voice echoing loudly as she jogged down to the end of the warehouse to stand by half a dozen colossal monoliths, “are for our three Vesta-class battleships. Plus spares for the whole lot, of course.”

Seven nodded, face breaking into an appreciative smile. “Well done, Commander. Everything looks well in hand for the commencement of the installation process tomorrow morning.”

B’Elanna strutted back to the former Borg, satisfaction cushioning her every step. “Thanks, Casanova. I think it’s pretty goddamn impressive, if I do say so myself,” she grinned. The engineer wiped at a bit of sweat and grim smeared across her cheek with the back of her dilithium residue-tipped hand. She pulled a stained rag from her pocket to clean her fingers. “At least James is off my ass now.”

“I have no doubt Starfleet Command is resoundingly pleased,” supported Seven.

“They fucking better be,” said the Klingon, exhaling heavily. “I think I gave myself a stomach ulcer finishing this order.”

“Will Lieutenant Paris be present for the installations?”

“I doubt it. He’d be bored out of his mind after the first half hour. But he’d murder you if you don’t stick around for drinks with us tonight.” Seven looked up at the chronometer on the wall, checking her time. “He’ll be done in an hour,” B’Elanna added, more hastily that she had intended. She was still rife with energy and wanted to extend the headiness she felt as long as possible.

Seven inclined her head. “Acceptable.”

—

An hour later, the two women sat perched on high top stools, knees bumping slightly together in the crowded bar. B’Elanna Torres was still riding high from the incredible achievement of her SRDU project and thrilled to steal away a happy hour with a real live adult as her children were being watched over by their Bajoran nanny at the opposite end of the Utopia Colony. The bar was bustling with traders, construction workers, engineers, miners, and mechanics coming off the Martian settlement’s Beta shift, bone-tired but as boisterous and hearty in their leisure as they were in their work. The setting was something of a microcosm of Mars writ large, a patchwork planet of technical professionals and blue collar laborers, of which B’Elanna proudly counted herself amongst their number. She liked Mars’ hodgepodge mix of highly skilled scientific artisans and the gruff, rough-around-the-edges sort that were required to operate in tandem to build the most advanced starships in the galaxy. She found the planet mirrored her own dual nature: nimble and brawny, settled and intrepid, woman and Klingon.

Yet while she, Tom, and their babies had built a wonderful life together on this red rock, a part of her adventurous spirit still niggled under her skin, reminding her that an entire universe lay outside the confines of her comfortable shipyards, calling like a siren song for her to sail its cosmic oceans. She worried that the glorious end of her mammoth slipstream assignment would likewise usher in a period of restlessness. B’Elanna loathed idleness and would sooner ram her skull through a bulkhead than kick rocks in an empty warehouse with a Command post devoid of meaning. She wondered what was next for her career, and not without a measure of trepidation.

“So Icheb _was_ granted assignment to the Delta Fleet? On the flagship no less?” B’Elanna blew a stream of air through puffed cheeks, and swirled the ice around in her gin and tonic. “I can’t believe your girl didn’t put her foot down.”

“She had her reservations, but relented,” the blonde said, looking down into her whiskey cocktail before lifting the highball for a sip.

B’Elanna smirked and lowered her brow at her companion. “Were you by chance naked when she relented?”

Seven smiled coyly. “Perhaps.”

The Klingon laughed and bumped her ridged forehead against the blonde’s shoulder. “I knew it. Hey, why don’t you use your powers for good and convince the Captain to have a baby?”

The former Borg sighed, smile loosening with the serious turn of the conversation. “I do not want to trouble her with the subject before our mission. She has so much responsibility in this endeavor, and I would not like to add to her stress around its execution.” The blonde swirled her drink, ice cubes melting into their golden liquor bath. “Afterwards, I think. I will open the topic.”

B’Elanna hummed and nodded. “Fair enough. I know I’m very, very done with all that pregnancy shit, but I have to admit the prospect of a little Janeway running around is disgustingly cute. It _is_ something you want, right?” the brunette questioned.

“Yes, very much,” she admitted softly. “I just have to convince Kathryn.”

Torres snorted. “Yeah right. All you have to do is ask her. She’d fold immediately. You’ve got her wrapped around your little metal finger.”

“Aaaaaah! Seven of Mine!” yelled an exuberant voice across the crowded room behind the two women. A grinning Tom Paris flew into the blonde Borg from behind, throwing his arms around her shoulders to gather her tightly into his chest. Tom was still dressed in his flight suit, a red-banded utilitarian coverall not dissimilar to Seven’s magenta biosuit, albeit with a lot more slack in the fit than the Borg’s skin-tight garment. “I missed you, man! My better half!” the pilot said, smacking a staccato of kisses on Seven’s cheek.

“I’ll try not to take offense to that,” said B’Elanna snidely, throwing up a hand to the bartender to gesture for another round. She often pretended to be annoyed by her husband’s close friendship with the austere Seven of Nine, and while a bit of her sometimes was, she mostly found the relationship between the two blondes to be pretty fucking adorable. Not that Tom needed to know that.

“We just saw one another last month, Lieutenant,” grinned Seven.

“Yeah, but that made it worse,” he explained, finally releasing his friend from his tight embrace. “I got used to seeing you everyday, just like old times.” He lunged over toward his petite wife. “And hello, my brilliant Klingon Commander,” he greeted sweetly, bowing regally and kissing her a bit too long on her lips for the venue.

B’Elanna giggled and pushed him away. “Lunatic.”

Tom threw his arms around the necks of the two females, bringing the heads of the trio closer together. “Ah, this is so great. Back together again. The Three Amigos. Tres Leches. Snap, crackle, and pop.”

“How do you know Seven, Kathryn, and I aren’t the Three Amigos?” snarked his wife.

Tom looked skyward, contemplating the image. “Hm. I think I had an extremely vivid dream about that once.” B’Elanna elbowed his ribs. She had walked right into that one.

Discourse paused as the three grabbed their drinks and clinked them together, with Tom dedicating the beverages to B’Elanna’s achievement. Afterwards, the threesome’s chatter wound this way and that, covering the whereabouts of former crewmembers, updates from the family, and the latest Fleet gossip.

“What’s KJ up to today?” asked the helmsman, elbow propped on the shoulder of his wife.

“She is leading a strategy summit for the Captains selected for the Delta mission. They will be assigning full crew complements soon. I believe your father is also in attendance, but I am not certain,” said Seven.

“Yeah, I can’t see him passing up the chance to spend a day with his favorite,” murmured Tom with a twinge of bitterness. “He’s so transparent it’s pathetic.”

B’Elanna raised an eyebrow at her spouse. While the two of them had often discussed privately the elder Paris’s clear infatuation with the auburn Admiral, a situation Tom insisted had been present since Kathryn Janeway was a mere cadet whose thesis Owen advised, they had never hinted at it in front of Janeway’s wife. That Tom was doing so now and in such a cavalier manner made B’Elanna wonder if the two Paris men had recently exchanged words on the subject. “Something you’d like to share with the class, Tommy?” the engineer asked.

Tom rolled his eyes. “He can just be so damned self righteous sometimes,” he sighed. “I kind of confronted him about some shit after South Carolina. You can imagine how that went down.” He drained the last of his cocktail. “He calls me up yesterday — while I’m at work, by the way — to ask if I’ve quote ‘cooled off yet’ unquote.” Tom scoffed, gesturing with air quotations. “Totally avoiding the point where he’s in the wrong. Classic Owen behavior with his Mister Magoo-looking ass.”

B’Elanna smothered a guffaw. “God, I hope the Mister Magoo look isn’t in your future.”

Tom scrubbed a self-conscious fist over his hairline. “Me too, Sweetheart. Baldness comes from the mother’s side, right?”

“I thought your relationship with your father had improved since Voyager’s return?” queried the Borg.

He shrugged. “I mean, yes, it definitely has. We do get along most of the time, and he’s great with the kids. He and mom have been a huge help there. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to call him out on his bullshit when I see it.” Tom shook his head and laughed without mirth. “Honestly, the guy needs to grow the fuck up. He’s always berated _me_ for being the immature one, yet here he is spending the better part of two decades drooling over an unattainable woman like some horny-ass sixteen year old.” He grimaced at his blonde best friend. “Sorry if this is too much information, Sev.”

Seven lifted a shoulder to convey nonchalance. “No matter. I am well aware of his attraction to Kathryn. As you say, it is quite apparent.”

Tom adjusted his posture to lean more solidly against his seated wife, and moved his arm to incircle her shoulders. Emboldened by the implacability of his friend, he continued. “Yeah, no joke. In a nutshell, that’s pretty much what I told him. And look, a part of me is sympathetic, or at least I’m trying to be. I mean, did Ensign Janeway feature prominently in the dreams of Teenage Tom? Um, hell yeah. Yes, she did. Because I was fifteen years old! A fucking military Admiral with a wife, three kids, and _no hair_ doesn’t have that excuse. God, keep that shit in your pants!” he fumed.

Torres groaned. “Please tell me you didn’t say _that_ to your father.”

“Well, not in those exact words, per se,” he edged.

B’Elanna huffed a laugh. “And you wonder why he didn’t take it well.”

“As you tell me, Sweetheart, my communications skills are a work in progress,” he smiled.

Seven quirked her cortical implant, a notion suddenly alighting her features. “Does your mother notice this behavior?”

Tom shrugged and released a noise of uncertainty. “Ah, maybe? I don’t know. She’s never talked to me about it. But how could she not see it, right? That’s the other thing. I know he loves my mom, but his actions are so disrespectful to her even if he’s technically never done anything out of line. She’s put up with so much of his shit over the years, and doesn’t deserve this.”

“True,” nodded the engineer, thinking of her angelic mother-in-law, who had warmly accepted an Academy wash-out, Maquis-criminal, Klingon-mut like B’Elanna into her family with glee. “Julia Paris is the salt of the Earth. I feel like an asshole by comparison sometimes just being in her presence.”

“Hey!” interrupted Tom, snapping the fingers of his hand and pointing at Seven. “Speaking of assholes, I heard Cap got into it with Nechayev again the other day.”

The blonde smirked. “A frequent occurrence.”

“Man, what _is_ it with that woman? I swear to God, if I breathe too loudly around her she looks like she wants to stab me in the throat with her fingernails,” he laughed. “And how can you hate Katie Janes!?”

B’Elanna smirked at her husband’s endearing review of Janeway’s likeability, but could not help but agree with him. Torres herself had valiantly tried to hate Kathryn Janeway for a whole host of dumbass reasons when first encountering her in their forced Delta exile. Her ire had died a swift and stupid death a scant two weeks in the diminutive Captain’s company. Janeway’s earnest nobility and unwavering faith in the inherent goodness of others had melted even B’Elanna’s hardened Klingon heart.

“Admiral Nechayev’s dislike is less about Kathryn and far more about myself and Icheb,” offered the ex-Borg. “Within the first minute of my acquaintance she was asking me if I was present at the Battle of Wolf 359. To her, I am still Borg. She condemns Kathryn merely due to her association with me.”

Torres drummed her nails against the bar, considering. “Yeah, that’s got a lot to do with it, but honestly she’s just hot for her.”

Tom sputtered out a laugh, and widened his eyes incredulously. “Get the fuck out of here. You think Alynna Nechayev wants to bang the Captain?”

The Klingon reared back and furrowed her eyebrows. Had her husband seriously not noticed this fact already? “Most definitely.”

Seven placed her empty glass on the countertop next to her elbow, and leaned closer to the engineer, eyes intense with curiosity. “Explain.”

“Easy,” B’Elanna said confidently. “Cap and Nechayev came to SRDU a lot in the early days — spot checking, conducting progress reports, reviewing specs, et cetera, et cetera. Kathryn was there, of course, because the engines were going in her Fleet, though I didn’t know that at the time. And I guess technically she was still my CO. Nechayev was just stopping by to be a persnickety asshole, making sure the project was worth the investment to the Council. Or so I thought.” B’Elanna took a swallow of her drink, and raised a flat palm. “Hand to god, every single visit there was one or two occasions where I saw Nechayev staring — no wait, that's not it exactly — _gazing_ at Kathryn when she wasn’t looking or had her back turned. Pretty irritating actually, like she thought I wouldn’t notice? I mean, that’s _my CO_ you’re looking at.” The Commander laughed. “This one time, I caught her. Eyeballs to ass, right?” B’Elanna pointed two fingers from her own eye sockets to some invisible point near the floor, pantomiming the stare. She grinned at the memory. “At this point, I’d had enough of it. So, I clear my throat to get her attention. Nechayev whips her head around to see me giving her the evil eye, and turns beet red. I swear her whole scalp blushed. Mortified. She acted so pissy with me the rest of the day.”

“No shit. Did Cap notice?” asked Tom.

B’Elanna waved a hand in front of her face. “No way. You know how oblivious she is about that stuff. Kahless! Seven had to practically slice her wrists open during a staff meeting to get her attention!”

“I will add that my approach was ultimately successful,” Seven said smugly.

“Hey as far as seduction techniques go, I’m not knocking it,” smirked the Klingon. “‘Enticing hands,’ was it? Yeah, I’ll fucking bet they are.”

“So Nechayev,” interjected Tom, drawing the women away from their tangent and back to the subject at hand. “Did she ever ‘fess up, or say anything to you about it later?”

“Not really,” B’Elanna replied, shaking her head. “But she did stop coming with the Captain after that. Haven’t seen her at my shipyard since.”

Seven sat back, looking away to process this recounting. After a beat, she returned her attention to the couple, looking exceedingly pleased at the turns of events. “Very interesting evidence you’ve gathered, Commander. This could be quite useful information. Quite useful indeed.”

Tom shivered and smiled deviously at the blonde woman. “Man, I would _not_ want to get on your bad side, Sev.”

—

Hours later, B’Elanna and Tom had finished dinner with Miral and Michael, washed them, and put the two rugrats to bed with stories of a faraway starship crew traversing ghostly nebulas and getting kidnapped by an ancient all-knowing being on the edge of the galaxy. Miral was old enough to know the fairytales were condensed renditions of the lived experiences of her parents. Smiling sleepily at the story’s end, she whispered, “I want to explore space, too, and fly the ships just like you, Daddy.”

Tom had smiled and kissed his daughter tenderly on her forehead. “You can, baby. And when you’re old enough, I’ll teach you how.” B’Elanna was glad there was no mirror in the vicinity with which to reflect the no-doubt mooney expression she was displaying on her face at the sweetness. Sometimes the preciousness of her family overwhelmed her.

As if placing a cherry on atop the rich banana split of her banner day, B’Elanna had eagerly drawn her husband into her heated body that night, riding him hard and thorough from above while she pinned down his wrists by his shoulders in decadent domination. _Just_ the way she liked it. Her toes had curled behind her back deliciously as her Tommy had submitted under her strength, crying out to her, begging for it, telling her how much he loved the way she touched him, eyes closed as if in prayer. So _good_.

In the night’s dark stillness after her climax, B’Elanna felt the celebratory mood she experienced all day slowly retreating, indeed leaving in its wake the threat of wanderlust and restlessness, just as she feared. In hopes of staving off the feeling, she turned on her side to face her mate, and drew their faces close, foreheads inches apart.

“I’ve been thinking about what’s next for us,” she whispered.

Tom drew a hand through her brunette strands with a grace and smoothness he kept hidden from others. The gregarious spirit he presented to the world belied the surprisingly reserved and gentle man he was in private. She remembered noticing his quiet inner character years ago when their friendship was beginning to reform itself into something more. It had made her fall for the man all the more quickly. She still felt privileged to know him in this way.

“What would _you_ like to be next?” he asked, voice low and soft.

She licked her lips and swallowed. “I want us to go back to the Delta Quadrant. With Kathryn and Seven. I don’t want them going out there on this mission without us,” she said with resolve. Internally, she felt her stomach tingle in surprise at the admission. She had not even voiced that desire to herself, but the moment the words left her lips she knew them to be true. Perhaps she subconsciously made the decision when Kathryn first told her of the undertaking in the South Carolina sand. Her declaration was met with silence, however, from her fair husband. She held her breath, chest tensing before his response.

He nestled his face into the pillow further, and smiled. “Were we not already planning to go?”

B’Elanna breathed out a laugh in relief, and leaned forward to bestow a kiss. “Yes, I guess we were.”

“Besides, they’d be lost without us. No telling what mess they’d find themselves in if we weren’t there,” he grinned, resuming his attentions on her hair.

She laughed and kissed him again. “What about the kids?”

“Mom and Dad can take them. Moira and Kathleen will help, too. They’d love it,” he whispered, referencing his two older sisters. “Plus, it would give Dad a way to make up with me.”

She nodded, and tugged at Tom’s body until he took the cue and moved to rest his head against her chest. Scratching her nails through his short hair, she sighed deeply and felt her momentary restlessness dissolve away into renewed purpose. Tom was always able to set her mind, so often pulled painfully in two directions, at ease.

“Hey,” she rasped, close to sleep, “I know I don’t say it enough, but I really love you, Tommy.”

She felt his cheeks pull tight into a smile against the skin of her breast. “I know, Sweetheart. I love you, too.” Then, as a coda to her splendid day, “We’re doing alright.”

  
  
  
  


#  **VII. Though Once They Are Bowed So Low for Long, They Never Right Themselves.**

Kathryn Janeway was rather proud of her ability to restrain herself when first setting eyes upon Tuvok and his wife, T’Pel, at the transport hub near the couple’s desert home in the Gol province. She had not seen them in six long months, but she was aware the two would not have thanked her for an illogical display of physical affection. She had instead smiled widely at the regal Vulcan pair from a close distance, Seven and Icheb to her right, and twitched her tapered fingers at her sides to fight against her desire to spring forward and draw her friends into a tight embrace.

Dinner that evening had been an even more taxing exercise in tactile restraint for Kathryn. Their party was joined by Tuvok’s four children — sons Sek, Varith, Elieth, and daughter Asil — along with their spouses and children. Sitting across the table from Tuvok’s progeny, the Admiral itched to hug the handsome brood, Asil in particular. Kathryn had attended Asil’s emotion eradication ceremony, the _kolinahr_ , many years prior as a sort of godmother figure for the young woman. As such, she had always felt a particular fondness for the girl and was especially eager to shower Asil with affections now that she was with child herself after undergoing her first _pon farr_. Janeway cajoled herself by heaping tenderness on the family’s younger grandchildren who had not yet undergone the purge of feeling.

After dessert, the four adults decided to walk off the meal along the edges of the magnificent Gol Canyons nearby the property. Kathryn and Tuvok lead the relaxed stroll, with Seven and T’Pel walking together twenty paces behind them.

“I hear that you are considering conceiving?” Tuvok asked bluntly.

Kathryn smirked. “My goodness, is this published somewhere?”

“Not that I am aware,” he said, playing along with her barb.

“So it’s just B’Elanna then, trying to spread her influence?” She sighed. “I guess it’s not her worst idea.”

“I am not at liberty to reveal my sources,” he responded seriously.

Janeway laughed and breathed deeply the clean aridity of the vast desert around them. She shook her head in awe at the spectacle of colors from the dimming sun as they played themselves across layers of geological epochs expressed in the striated rock face from rim to river basin. “It’s extraordinary, Tuvok,” she said, regarding the landscape.

“Indeed. These canyons were formed as the Xen’tai River cut into the rock face over the course of millions of years. The bedrock itself is more than two billion years old,” he explained, gesturing a hand balletically to the rapids hundreds of meters below them. “I find the visual expression of time that the canyon walls provide to be a useful tool when I am in need of perspective.”

“Are you in need of perspective now, old friend?” she husked, looking up at him.

Tuvok took a deep breath. “My sabbatical working with the Vulcan Institute of Defensive Arts has been a satisfactory one since Voyager’s return. I was further pleased to spend extended time with my family after our sojourn in the Delta Quadrant.”

“Sojourn,” laughed Janeway. “Such a kind way of putting it, dear.”

“However,” he continued, his line of thought unbroken by her passive self-deprecation, “I find myself motivated to return to Starfleet and incorporate what I have learned at the Institute into my Security work. I am also eager to serve under you once again.”

Kathryn clamped her eyes shut. “Tuvok,” she breathed.

“I plan to submit my request for assignment as an officer aboard your flagship. I wish to go on your mission to confront the Borg.”

She sighed. “I hadn’t planned to ask you to do this,” she admitted wearily. She glanced behind them to regard their wives engaged in easy discourse. The two gorgeous women looked like a painting there together on the lip of the giant chasm with the evening wind blowing their dresses away from the edge and flush against their bare legs. “T’Pel only just got you back. And your kids…”

“They understand my reasoning, and know I would be an asset to your mission.”

“Oh, there’s no doubt you’d be an asset,” she agreed. “But your separation from them eleven years ago was my fault, Tuvok. If something happened to you now after you made it home to them? I’d never forgive myself.”

“Then you must accept the logic that the reserve is true for me as well. The prospect of harm coming to you, Seven of Nine, or Icheb without me being there to assist you is unacceptable,” he stated evenly.

Kathryn drew her lips into her mouth and shook her head. “I don’t suppose there’s any talking you out of it?”

The Vulcan tilted his head in her direction. “I would never act against your explicit orders, Admiral, but I think this is the correct decision at the present time. I believed it would be better to make the request to you in person. Do you accept?” he pressed.

Janeway rolled her shoulders, steeling herself against the fear that she was making a mistake. “Yes. Granted. Welcome aboard, Commander,” she said extending her hand for him to shake. He took it to seal the agreement.

“Have you selected a designation for the Vesta ships?” he asked, referencing the brand new, sleek model of cruisers, three of which were assigned to the Delta Fleet for what would be the maiden voyage of the design class.

“I have. The light cruisers will be the Hatshepsut and the Horus. My flagship, the heavy cruiser, is the Hathor,” she smiled, preemptively swelling with pride at the majesty of her handsome vessels. “I’ll put you on the Hathor with me,” she added, answering his next inquiry before he voiced it.

He nodded. “It is a unique selection of names with which you have chosen to christen the new class.”

Her lips curled into a smirk. “You disapprove?”

“On the contrary. Ancient Egyptian religious tenets are the nearest of the Earth civilizations to that of Vulcan mysticism. I have great respect for the extinct society, as do most Vulcans,” he noted. “I assume you know the mythology surrounding the goddess Hathor?”

“Hm, I do,” she hummed. “But please tell me again. I’d like to hear your account. You have such a nice way of explaining things.”

“If you wish,” he acceded in his soothing voice. “Hathor was a supremely important deity within the Old and Middle Egyptian kingdoms. She represented many things to her followers, chief among them womanhood, psychological health, joy, celebration, rebirth, and, perhaps most significantly, the cyclical nature of the universe’s regeneration. Things are born, they live — in joy, if Hathor has a hand in it — and they die, only to be born again. Hathor herself experienced this phenomenon in her own creation.”

“Yes, go on,” she smiled.

“One of the earliest deities in the Egyptian faith is Sekhmet, who was unleashed upon the Earth by the Sun god, Ra, to punish humanity for its evils. Sekhmet was a force of unadulterated destruction, wiping out mankind in droves without prejudice. She nearly succeeded in eliminating all of humanity from existence when Nephthys, the goddess of the home, devised a clever deception. Nephthys brewed a red beer and gifted it to Sekhmet, who mistook the crimson drink for human blood. She drank the alcohol greedily, and soon passed out from inebriation. Upon waking, she realized that Nephthys had provided her with the gift of redemption. She had been born again as Hathor, her spirit cleansed of all wickedness and hatred by the would-be blood, leaving in its place only benevolence and joy. Hathor was reformed in purity, and served only to make mankind content in life, in death, and in its eventual rebirth.”

She paused at the ridge of the canyon and looked out at the painted topography, hands on her hips. “A lovely sentiment, don’t you think? That a creature so lost can be redeemed with just a little push?”

Tuvok halted by her side and turned to take in the vision of the sunset with her. Though he said nothing in response, Janeway knew the Vulcan well enough to take his silence for agreement.

“Why choose Hatshepsut and Horus for the other two ships?” he asked after the sun had dipped below the distant horizon.

“Well, Hatshepsut was a transformative female pharaoh in her time, and a devout follower of Hathor. Horus, he’s the sky god, which seems fitting. Not to mention Hathor’s husband.”

“I suppose that does lend itself to a tidy thematic symmetry,” he said.

“Yes, I think it does,” she smiled. “And maybe it’s a bit on the nose, but I think Sekhmet and the Borg have more than one quality in common.”

“Is the Delta Fleet your red elixir?” he asked. Though his intonation was as flat as ever, Janeway knew he posed the question with humor. “And you our Nephthys?”

Kathryn, unable to help herself, reached over to squeeze warmly his muscled arm and lean her head against his shoulder, finally establishing an affectionate connection to her friend. “No, dearest. I rather think Seven is.”

—

The weekend with Tuvok’s family had been heavenly, so much so that Kathryn had not minded the patches of scorched skin that dotted her cheeks, shoulders, and legs as they sprung up after their long hikes under the Vulcan desert sun. Back in Starfleet offices, the petite Admiral still felt the chaff of the burns underneath her stiff uniform in a happy reminder of the break.

Janeway was wrapping up a long workday of crew manifest reviews, moving science specialists, engineers, and operations technicians from one ship to another in the massively dull, yet necessary game of musical chairs one had to engage in before the commencement of a deep space mission. Fortunately, most of the Nebula-class light cruisers and Defiant destroyers already had full complements. Her primary task had been to fill out two of the Intrepids that had not recently been in use and her three titanic Vesta ships with a list just shy of two thousand personnel.

She groaned and pinched the space between her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. Placing her PADD down on the cushion next to her, she stood from her couch, resolving to finish the task first thing in the morning. She was exhausted and very much wanted to curl up next to Seven under their down duvet. Stretching her arms and back severely, she grunted tacitly against her stiffness and then startled at the sound of a chime emanating from the inner door of her anteroom in the otherwise silent office. Not bothering to don her uniform jacket, Janeway padded over to the door and opened it immediately.

“My apologies for the unannounced visit,” greeted Owen Paris, still dressed in his full kit. “Your Lieutenant seems to have left for the night,” he said gesturing to Samantha’s empty desk behind him.

“Oh yes, I sent her home a couple of hours ago,” she said, waving a hand and stepping aside to let the man inside. “Poor thing is about ready to pop,” she smiled, imagining the heavily pregnant blonde Lieutenant waddling home in a billowing Science-green turtleneck. “Please sit,” she offered, gesturing to her sofa.

He nodded, opened his mouth to speak, seemed to think better of it, closed his lips, and sat. Kathryn furrowed her brow at his odd, nervous demeanor. Hoping it might relax him, she asked, “Can I get you anything?”

He lifted a hand and shook his head. “No, thank you.”

Janeway took a seat at the other end of the sofa, and reached to take a sip of her cooled coffee. She made a face of disgust at the drink’s tepid temperature and put the mug away on the side table. Turning to regard the elder Paris, she paused and waited for him to open the discussion. When he failed to do so, she cleared her throat. “Sir? Can I help you with something?”

“Uh, yes,” he answered finally. “Well, no not exactly. I came to talk to you about something.”

She sat back and crossed her legs at the knee, concern coloring her features. “Oh? Is something wrong?”

He rubbed a hand around the back of his neck. “It’s difficult. I’m not sure where to start. I, um—” he clicked his teeth, struggling to find the words. He looked up at her then and seemed to freeze, mouth open and soundless. She lowered her head in prompting, and the movement seemed to snap him out of his trance. “Well, you see, I’ll be retiring from active duty at the end of the calendar year,” he said finally, though she sensed this topic of conversation had resulted from a change in tact.

“Really?” she exclaimed, eyebrows rising. “I don’t know what to say, Admiral. Are you sure?”

He lowered his chin. “Yes, I’ve given it a lot of thought, and it’s time. I’ve had a long career, and now I’d like to spend more time with my grandchildren. Focus on other things.”

Kathryn smiled ruefully. “Well, congratulations sir, I think you’ve earned it. You’ve had an incredible career, and you’ve certainly been a supporter of mine since my Academy days. It won’t be the same around here without you,” she said kindly. “But I know Julia and the kids will be thrilled to have you around more.”

Owen cleared his throat gruffly. “Yes, well…” he trailed.

“Have you told Jellico?”

“No. No, not yet. You’re the first person I’ve told, actually,” he admitted.

“Oh.” A strange sensation twisted in her stomach at the revelation of being prioritized in this way — something eerily akin to unease.

“I also wanted to let you know that I’ll be nominating you as my replacement. On the Council,” he said.

Janeway scoffed and looked away. “Sir, there are at least a dozen Admirals more qualified for your role than I am, not to mention those already in line ahead of me. I don’t think I can accept.”

“I disagree,” he argued. “There may be higher ranking officers, but the Fleet Council is starved for a voice like yours in their number. You’re bold, but strategic. You’re not afraid to take risks and think outside the box. Your moral compass is strong. You _already_ command your own Fleet for god sakes. The Leadership needs you.” He shook his head as the ghost of a smile formed on his face. “I’ve thought so since you were my Science Ensign who hadn’t thought twice about the Command track. Hell, you’ll even have Jellico’s job one day.”

Kathryn blushed faintly at the compliment, and smirked. “I’d never get Nechayev’s vote,” she quipped.

He released a low chuckle. “Maybe not. But if you accomplish this mission of yours, even she will be forced to sing your praises.”

Janeway rolled her eyes and beamed widely. “Yeah, I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Again, he seemed for moment struck dumb looking at her. Only when her smile fell away completely did he speak again. “I saw in the manifest that Tom and B’Elanna will be going with you as well?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, they are. But I assure you, they made the decision with no prodding from me,” she hedged.

“I know that, I do,” he said, voice low. “They love you too much not to go.” He drew a shaky breath and looked down, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. Kathryn tensed at his unusual behavior; his whole body seemed to vibrate with nerves. “Jesus, Kathryn. _I_ love you too much.”

She sucked in a gasp, shocked he verbalized a fact she had willfully ignored for years. Her stomach bottomed out as a sour taste asserted itself at the back of her cheeks, suddenly sick with the reality that he was about to upset the delicate apple cart of their relationship. “Owen,” she warned.

“I know. I _know_ ,” he said, voice tainted with misery, but spilling out quickly now as if a dam had broken. He removed his hands from his eye sockets and looked up at her, pained. “I am sorry for it, Kathryn. Truly. I know it’s a mess — our careers, our families are so intertwined. I’ve been in agony for twenty years over it. I mean, Christ! I was just going through the motions in the Fleet, hopping from one assignment to the next, moving up the ladder at the proper pace. Bored out of my mind in all honesty.” He swallowed and leaned an inch closer to her. “And then you show up. This bright, beautiful cadet coming to _me_ for guidance, and it was like my world was suddenly in color. My work had meaning again. I couldn’t help it. I was powerless. I had to give you anything you wanted.”

She turned away from him, shoulders tight and stiff. “I didn’t want this,” she whispered.

He swallowed and looked down. “I tried to let go of it. Really, I did. And I think I could have, if that damned mission on the Al-Batani had never happened. The Cardassians.” He strangled a gasp. “What they did to you.” 

Kathryn put a hand over her eyes and shook her head. Unbeckoned, a gray-skinned Gul, his mouth a villainous gash, loomed over her in her mind. He leered menacingly as his digits raked across her bloodied, bare skin and inside the vulnerable juncture between her legs. His movements were as rough as the bony outgrowths on his face and jaw. Admiral Paris, she knew, was chained to the filthy wall behind her metal slab. He could see and hear everything that demon was doing to her, but she would not give the Cardassian the satisfaction of vocalizing her fear. She screwed her lips together during the entire assault and let nary a sound escape her throat, even as the Gul cackled and told her it would all stop if she told him the information he wanted to know. Kathryn took a deep breath and sat with the horrific images, allowing them space in her head so the feelings would dissipate and pass. To be fearful of the memories gave them a power they did not deserve. 

“It’s my fault, Kathryn. I should have done more for you,” Paris choked out. “It kills me.”

“Please stop,” she ordered, hand still over her eyes. The dark visions were nearly gone from her mind’s eye. Soon, her first love, Lieutenant Justin Tighe, would burst through the iron door of her prison cell and rip the restraints from her body. Light would pour in around her. She would be free of it, and once again her trusty therapeutic technique to sit with the memories would meet success. In the present, she felt the Admiral tug at her wrist, pulling her palm away from her face and interrupting her process. “Owen,” she bit out, and jerked her limb from his hold. “It isn’t my job to make you feel better about this.”

“Oh Kathryn,” he wailed. “I’m so sorry. I know my love for you is my own cross to bear, but I just wanted you to know that not a day goes by that I’m not sorry about all of it.”

She drew in a deep breath through her nose, and placed both hands on her knees, preparing to rise. “Listen to me,” she said, voice firm. “That guilt is not helping me. It’s not helping _anyone_ in fact, least of all you. Owen, you need to go to counseling. Work through these issues. There’s no shame in it. If your guilt over what happened in that Cardassian prison has been haunting you for twenty years, you need to get help for it. But I can’t be that for you.”

He swallowed and nodded.

“Go home,” she commanded. “Be with your wife, eat a nice meal, and be thankful for your beautiful family. Then tomorrow, wake up and make an appointment. Okay?”

He laughed humorlessly. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.” She exhaled and looked away from him toward the chronometer on the wall. Seven and Icheb would soon be worried by her tardiness. “I have to get going,” she announced, shrugging into her uniform jacket and standing in a simultaneous action. He looked up at her wearily from his seat, hands flipped palms up on his thighs as if in supplication to her royalty. “You can do this, Admiral,” she decreed, standing erect above him. “Shape up.”

  
  
  
  


#  **VIII. I'd Like to Get Away from Earth Awhile, and Then Come Back to It and Begin Over.**

The leaves had already begun to turn in synchroneity with the cooling weather by the time Kathryn, Seven, and Icheb made their way back east to Indiana for their pre-launch visit. Summer was decidedly over, but despite the hints of a fall chill, Gretchen had insisted upon a celebratory cookout in the backyard the final night of the family gathering before the Fleeters left on a morning transport to Utopia Planitia. “I’m doing my best to send you all off with a little meat on your bones,” she had explained in a tiff when Kathryn mentioned the crisp temperatures.

“Stebe, I don’t mind taking a turn at the grill if you need a break,” Kathryn called to her brother-in-law from the porch. Though the lanky man’s name was actually Stephen, the ‘Phoebe and Stebe’ moniker had been the teasing, yet affectionate byname Kathryn had created for her sister and her mate long before their nuptials. The nickname amused Kathryn far too much to cease its use now, and Stephen did not seem to mind it.

“All good, Kat,” he assured, waving off her offer with his long, metal tongs. “Just relax.”

She sighed and settled back into her chair next to her sister, tossing the younger woman a blase look as she did so. “I tried.”

“He likes it,” shrugged Phoebe. “We never do this at our place. The boys wouldn’t wait ten seconds before setting their clothes on fire. On purpose.”

Kathryn smiled and looked out into the yard to watch the boys in question. Soot-haired twins Edward and Anthony, named for their mother’s deceased father and uncle respectively, were tall for their age and built like Janeways: wiry and thin, with arms and legs longer than their length of torso would normally produce. The boys, however, did not share their mother’s placid disposition. At present, they were pounding their chest and roaring as they ran circles around their bemused cousin, Icheb, while holding withered sticks aloft in their small hands.

“You must prove yourself as a warrior!” yelled Tony, doing his best to imitate a Klingon growl. The seven-year-olds both leapt up onto Icheb’s back with a howl and grabbed onto his neck and shoulders to hang off the tall Brunali like monkeys. Icheb reached behind to hold them in place protectively, even as they climbed on him like a jungle gym in their mock attack. After a short struggle, Eddie released his grip and fell back to the ground. Flexing his chest skyward, the boy released a war cry to the heavens and began whacking nearby shrubbery with his stick-sword. Tony maintained his hold on his cousin, and readjusted to ride the young man piggy-back as they jogged around the yard. “Faster, faster!” he ordered the older boy.

Phoebe shot her sister a weary look. “See? I’ve raised wild animals.”

Kathryn patted her sister’s hand, and fixed her face into a frown of false pity. “Yes, sweetie, but they’re adorable animals.”

The raven-haired Janeway groaned at the needling, and flipped her hand in her sister’s hold to lace their fingers together. “Not all of us can hit the easy-kid jackpot like you. ‘I got lost in the Delta Quadrant for seven years, and all I got was this perfect son?’” she quipped.

Kathryn rolled her eyes. “Yep, you nailed it.”

“Oh wait! This perfect son _and_ this drop-dead gorgeous wife,” she teased. “Maybe I should get lost for a while.”

Kathryn pulled their linked hands toward her face and kissed the back of her sister’s hand. “Don’t even joke about that.”

Phoebe smiled serenely at her protective older sister. “Don’t worry, Katie. I’m staying right here.” She sighed and squeezed their joined fingers. “But you’re not.”

Kathryn looked down and folded her lips into her mouth. “You know I can’t tell you where we’re going.”

“I get it. I’m an Admiral’s kid, too. I think I know anyway.” Phoebe looked out once again toward her husband at the grill and her precious, rowdy children swinging from the branches of the tree in the yard. The old maple had held up well to the climbs and swings of children, herself and Kathryn included, over generations at the Janeway farm. Phoebe’s sons took their own generational turn now, bending but not breaking the venerable branches in their swaying cadence. “I waited to have them, you know. Children. Steve wanted to have them immediately after we got married. He couldn’t wait to be a father. And after a while, I was ready, too.” She shook her head. “But when you went missing…”

Kathryn leaned close and placed her other hand on top of their woven fingers in reassurance.

“I couldn’t do it, Katie,” she whispered, voice thready. “I didn’t _want_ to do it without knowing you’d be here with me. It was too hard.” Phoebe swallowed. “I think Steve was pretty frustrated by my decision. Heartbroken even, but he let it go. And then when Paris called and told us they’d received a communication from Voyager, that he’d heard your voice,” she grinned, “I went off birth control that day. I knew if you were out there, alive, you’d raise heaven and hell to get home to us, and I’d see you again. The boys came nine months later.”

Kathryn rubbed her hand soothingly over their joined ones. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that, sweetie?” she asked quietly.

“I don’t know. I probably didn’t want to add to your guilt complex,” she smirked. “My point is that I need you, Katie. I don’t think I can do this life thing without you, and I’d rather not find out.” She turned her head to face her older sister, and flashed a small, sad smile. “Don’t get lost out there again, okay?”

—

After dinner, the family sprawled out in the living room around the hearth more in custom than in utility; it was still too early in the season for a fire indoors. Phoebe and Gretchen were on the couch, with Seven of Nine perched on the floor between the matriarch’s legs, dutifully allowing the eldest Janeway to braid her hair. Kathryn sat in the oversized leather armchair next to the blonde’s feet, scratching her nails through Eddie’s head in her lap. Her long, auburn hair was already twisted into a french braid, having been Gretchen’s first follicle victim of the evening. Tony sat on the rug in front of the dormant fireplace in between his father and Icheb, eyes and head beginning to droop heavily. The Klingon playacting had thoroughly worn out the young brothers.

“Such beautiful hair. Spun gold,” said Gretchen as she tugged and weaved the blonde locks in front of her. “I don’t know why you pull it up so often.”

“It is more efficient,” explained Seven unsurprisingly. “But I will leave it down more often in your presence if it would please you.”

“Suck up,” mumbled Stephen, voice laced with false annoyance.

“If you think it would help your standing, you are free to grow your hair as long as mine, Stephen,” Seven volleyed.

“No he’s not,” interjected Phoebe flatly. 

“You can wear your hair however you like, Sweetheart,” assured Grechen, patting down the finished blonde plait.

“Can I get a mohawk?” mumbled Eddie from his aunt’s lap.

“No you may not,” his mother replied breezily. The boy sighed, but was too tired to put up a fight over the issue.

“Whoa, no argument?” joked his father from the floor. “Must be time for bed.” The twins whined against the suggestion, but the protest was weak. They were indeed exhausted. Phoebe and Stebe gathered their boys up and ushered them up to bed after a round of kisses from their female relatives.

“We’ll see you in the morning before you ship out,” said Phoebe leaning down to kiss Seven and Kathryn’s cheeks. “And you! Thanks for tolerating the little monsters today, kiddo,” she smiled, hugging Icheb tightly.

“It was no bother,” he assured. “I rather enjoy it.”

Kathryn’s heart melted at the sincerity of the young man’s words. She knew her son liked seeing the carefree innocence of childhood up close because he had never had the opportunity to experience it himself. She suddenly thought Icheb would make an excellent brother, and then pushed the sentiment from her mind just as quickly.

“When will I see you again?” asked Gretchen morosely once her Starfleet kin were the only ones remaining in the room.

“We’re not sure,” admitted Kathryn honestly. She had her estimates, but it would do her mother no favors to promise a timeline that would never come to fruition. Gretchen had been burned enough in her marriage by the unplanned extensions to Edward Janeway’s deep space assignments. “Hopefully not too long.”

“Any time away is too long,” sighed the matriarch. “And even though I wouldn’t prefer it, at least you’ll all be together. Reel her in if she gets overzealous, hm?” she asked, leaning down to press her lips into her daughter-in-law’s braided blonde hair.

“I will do my best,” promised the ex-Borg.

Gretchen stood, and drew Seven up with her, hugging the tall woman tightly. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she said, voice wavering. She pulled her daughter and grandson into equally strong embraces. “I’ll put a pot on before you wake up,” she called as she trudged up the creaky wooden staircase.

Icheb looked over to his adopted mothers and raised an eyebrow. “She does not seem to be taking this very well.”

“She rarely does,” shrugged Kathryn, drawing the Brunali close. “All the more motivation to get home soon.”

—

Kathryn pulled Seven down to lay next to her in overgrown rye. The glowing windows of the farmhouse were within view from their position, but their distance and the darkness were enough to ensure the couple’s privacy. “I used to come out here all the time when I was a girl to look up at the stars,” she said wistfully, laying her head on her wife’s shoulder. “It still humbles me to think that I’ve traveled out there amongst them.”

“I grew up in them,” said Seven, eyes heavenward.

Kathryn smiled at her and nestled her face in Seven’s fine neck. “Yes, you did. Raised in stardust.” She paused and looked up once more into the dark sky. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

The blonde rolled over to pin the petite Janeway below her. “I find that you are a much more attractive vision.” Seven smirked playfully and rubbed a hand down the smaller woman’s flank. “And far more attainable.”

Kathryn scoffed. “Are you saying I’m _easy_ , Seven of Nine?” she asked in faux offense.

Seven dipped her head and licked the divot underneath the Admiral’s defined jaw. “Exceedingly.”

Kathryn laughed under the teasing attentions. “Well yes, I’m very easy where you’re concerned, Honey. No doubt.” Janeway shimmied her back against the rye and brought her slender hands up to stroke Seven’s face and soft hair. “Do you remember our first time?” she asked huskily.

Seven lowered her brows and leered suggestively. “Vividly.”

“Not _that_ first time,” she laughed lightly. “The first time we met.”

The blonde tilted her head in thought. “You do not mean after my severance when I screamed at you in the medical bay?”

“No, on the Borg cube. When you were still connected to the Collective. You strutted out from your alcove and circled Tuvok and I. Getting the measure of us.”

Seven inclined her head. “Yes, of course I recall that.” She furrowed her brow. “Why do you mention it?”

Kathryn smiled up at the nordic stunner, head framed in starlight, and smoothed back the golden strands that had escaped her tight braid. “The memory came to me again, just now when you made your joke. I remember how arrogant and proud you were. I’d never seen a drone like you before.” She shifted her thumb to brush over her wife’s full lips. “I convinced you to adopt my strategy for our joint weapons project.”

Seven smiled underneath the pad of Janeway’s thumb. “Only Kathryn Janeway could bend the Collective to her will.”

“Then, you went over to a computer terminal and began reciting in exact detail the count and function of every single torpedo that Voyager had in its arsenal,” she continued. “Sweet Tuvok was so disturbed by this that he asked you how you’d possibly come by this information.” Janeway grinned at the recollection. “And then you gave him this look like, ‘Are you dense? Haven’t you been listening to me at all?’ and said ‘We are Borg’ with such sauciness that I almost laughed out loud. Tuvok and I shared this look like ‘Wow, she’s got some moxy.’”

“I amused you?” the ex-Borg asked, mouth widening in surprise.

“You most certainly did!” she laughed, white teeth flashing. “You had such personality even though, in theory, you lacked all individuality. The way you looked at us and spoke, dripping with sass? You possessed such a biting wit.”

“I did?” questioned Seven.

“Yes, you did,” Janeway shrugged lazily. “Thinking back on it, I just liked you, even then. It made me feel there was still a person in there that could be saved. That there was still _you_ underneath all that plating.” Kathryn ran her fingertips across Seven’s chiseled cheekbone. “Maybe I decided then and there to take you with us,” she mused.

Seven closed the short distance between their mouths and kissed the auburn woman hungrily, purring in the connection. Their lips were smooth, warm despite the September chill, and molded together seamlessly. “Katie,” she breathed between their mouths in a tone that sounded like her heart was aching. “I came so close to never knowing you.”

Janeway panted into the kiss and shifted her thighs to slot between Seven’s. “I wish to have sex now,” Kathryn husked. 

Seven laughed as she grabbed the nook behind Kathryn’s knee and raised the leg to curl around her back more securely. Rocking together, the Borg moaned into the contact. Seven reached between their bodies and ran her fingers through her wife’s wetness. “ _God_ ,” Kathryn prayed, arching her spine off the flattened rye below with her eyes on the stars beyond the golden braid.

Around them, crickets and cicadas chirped and buzzed madly in the dusk. Crisp gusts rattled the branches of the pines and browning leaves of the buckeyes that lined the perimeter of the field. The night was singing with them. In space, there was no musky, ancient smell of dirt or glowing moon to reflect off the corn stalks. There was nary a breeze nor sunburn. No rustle of leaves or forlorn coyote howl. As much as she craved cosmic exploration and always longed to return to it after having her feet planted on soil for an extended stretch, Kathryn had to admit while loving her wife atop the roots of her ancestors that she would miss this place in the trek ahead.

  
  
  
  


#  **IX. Such Heaps of Broken Glass to Sweep Away...**

“Admiral. Sunhae Maeng, USS Liliuokalani,” clipped the Korean Captain as she extended a hand in greeting. Maeng was even more petite than Janeway, with serious eyes and a naturally stern expression set in odd contrast to her pretty, feminine face. “Welcome to Deep Space K-7. It’s an honor to meet you, ma’am.”

“Captain,” said the Admiral through the firm handshake. “We appreciate all the work you and your team have put into preparing for our arrival. Allow me to introduce Rear Admiral Kuznetsov, Commanding Officer of our Defiant ships, Commander Tuvok, my First Officer on the Hathor, Commander Torres, my Chief Engineer and Second Officer, and Seven of Nine, our mission Astrometrics specialist.”

Sunhae nodded at the crew standing behind Janeway, but did not invite a more warm salutation. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to the North docking bay. I assume you’d like to rendezvous with your Nebula and Intrepid ship Captains now.”

“You assume correctly,” said the Admiral. “Lead the way.”

Sunhae set a brisk pace for the party to traverse the station, maintaining a position a few paces in front of Kathryn and the rest of the group as she walked. The Korean had tied her raven hair into a tight bun, not dissimilar to a style a younger Captain Janeway would have sported back in the day. Signing up for dangerous scout missions on the edge of Federation space at the Beta border was also something the younger Janeway would not have shied away from doing to gain a fourth pip. She had been so thirsty to prove herself; eager to mark her achievements equal to her distinguished father. Janeway quickened her steps to pull even with the smaller woman. “Do you have family in the service, Captain?” Kathryn smiled knowingly.

Sunhae’s impeccably shaped eyebrows wrinkled in surprise before smoothing an instant later. “Yes, Admiral. My father and mother were both in the service. Chief Medical Officers. My younger brother is a Lieutenant Commander at Jupiter Station.”

“Doctor as well?”

“Science officer.”

“Good man. So was I,” Janeway said with a touch of wistfulness.

“I know, ma’am,” Maeng replied in what Janeway deduced was a characteristic clip.

“So you bucked the family trend and selected the Command track then?”

Sunhae’s shoulders stiffened. “I suppose so, ma’am.”

“This isn’t an interrogation, Captain,” laughed Janeway. “I’m just making conversation.”

Maeng’s shoulders relaxed at Kathryn’s placating tone. “Of course, Admiral. You are welcome to ask me anything,” she said, stern jaw loosening.

“How long have you been on the Lili?”

“Twenty-one months. We are scheduled to rotate back to the Alpha quadrant at the conclusion of the quarter. I intend to request another year extension for myself, however.”

Kathryn clicked her teeth. “Three years is a long time for a deep space mission.”

“Not as long as yours was, ma’am,” Sunhae said, just before her face flamed red. She finally turned to look at Janeway, eyes wide. “Oh! I only meant— that is, I didn’t mean to imply—”

Janeway waved a hand. “Don’t wind yourself up. I’m not insulted.”

“No, Admiral! An insult was most certainly _not_ my intention. I meant to convey my admiration for your incredible feat. I truly am honored to meet you. I’ve reviewed all of your Captain’s logs. I've studied everything about your—” Sunhae cut herself off mid-sentence and turned away from the Admiral to look straight ahead again, lips clenched, seemingly mortified by what she had just revealed.

Behind her, Kathryn thought she heard B’Elanna snort. Anatoly puffed a laugh. “Bozhe moi, so famous, Solnishka,” he mumbled into her ear. Janeway ignored both of them.

“That’s quite commendable of you, Captain,” Janeway said kindly. “Though reviewing my logs seems like a punishment more than a study. I certainly didn’t care for recording them.”

“Quite the understatement,” interjected Tuvok at her flank. “I frequently had to prompt you personally to complete your log before the nightly commencement of the Gamma shift, as you persistently ignored my computer reminders.”

“She did not ignore the reminders, Commander. She deactivated them,” revealed the ex-Borg evenly.

“Seven!” huffed Janeway.

“Admiral, that was a most unreasonable impulse,” chided Tuvok. “You must have anticipated that I would rectify the absence of your records in the Operations database in person.”

Kathryn sighed. “Maybe I just liked seeing your bright and shining face in my quarters at 1 AM, Commander.”

Tuvok raised a brow. “That is highly unlikely, as 01:00 hours was a time index when you and Seven of Nine were often engaged in—”

Janeway threw up a hand in interruption. “I don’t know why we’re litigating my recording habits six years after the fact!”

“Because Captain Maeng revealed that she had studied your personal logs in their entirety,” Seven stated guilessly, gesturing a hand toward the blushing Korean. Sunhae screwed her eyes shut and maintained her quick stride.

“Smooth, babe,” murmured Torres, smirking at the blonde.

“I have also reviewed many of your personal logs, Yekaterina. I would say they were dry in the beginning. But, you improved the skill in the back half of the journey,” shrugged Anatoly.

Janeway rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Kuz.” She cast a frustrated glare backward at the rest of her crew. “Any other commentary from the peanut gallery?”

“I don’t blame you, Cap,” said B’Elanna. “I hated those fucking things, too.”

“That was evident,” said Tuvok flatly.

“Ya know, I wish I’d have known you were the log police at the time, Tuvok. I could have had _way_ more fun avoiding the task,” smirked the engineer. “I always assumed the Commander was checking my work, and Chakotay’s such a pain in the ass to annoy.” Sunhae abruptly strangled a cough.

“Are you ill, Captain Maeng?” asked Seven.

“I’m fine,” she said, swallowing. “We’re nearly there.”

Turning the corner, Kathryn could make out a familiar gleaming hull, poised grandly through a viewport. Slowly her steps, Janeway moved closer to the window and gazed out at the svelte vessel docked motionless in the calm current of space. She felt the rest of her crew move in behind her to take a look for themselves at the well-loved ship, as bright and beautiful as she was in the dock at Deep Space Nine before her maiden voyage over a decade ago.

“She’s still a handsome one,” said B’Elanna quite without sarcasm.

“She is,” nodded the Admiral.

“While I find the human impulse to anthropomorphize objects to be illogical, I admit to being pleased to see her in good condition,” remarked the Vulcan.

“Indeed,” said Seven.

Still standing rigidly at attention, Sunhae shifted her weight awkwardly between her feet, unsure of how to proceed out of the respite of nostalgia.

“Forgive us the delay, Captain Maeng,” said Janeway without removing her eyes from Voyager’s pristine curves. “We haven’t been home in a long time.”

—

After a full day of mission prep meetings, the old Voyager senior staff (with a couple additions) made plans to grab drinks together at K-7’s resident watering hole in the observation deck, Mempa Pub. The civilian-run base rarely, if ever, hosted an armada the size of Kathryn’s at one time, so the small bars and mess halls had been packed the brim for the past 72 hours with thousands of crewmembers from the Delta Fleet’s Nebula, Intrepid, Defiant, and Vesta-class ships in port. From the windows that dotted the walls of the round venue, Kathryn could see the majority of her Fleet docked in circuitous fashion like the petals of a long-stemmed flower around the station. The vessels circumvented the station so heavily and in such great numbers that it appeared as if K-7 may topple out of orbit under the weight.

“Reminds me of the top of the Space Needle. Hell of a thing,” Tom said, swiveling his head around the room. Each of the pilot’s arms were draped casually over the back of the booth around B’Elanna and Seven. “You ever been to Seattle, Sev?”

“Once, for a weekend. I accompanied Kathryn on one of her speaking engagements,” the Borg said, leaning forward to sip her whiskey. “We stayed at the Edgewater.”

“Oh _yeah_ , that’s right,” grinned Paris devilishly. “The suite with the fireplace and the balcony over the Sound? I remember that story…”

“We need to have a talk about oversharing,” murmured Kathryn as she bumped an elbow into her wife’s side. B’Elanna smothered a laugh at the end of the booth, while Lieutenant Harry Kim and Captain Chakotay did their damndest to pretend they had missed the comment.

“I have not heard this balcony story,” said Anatoly, flanked by the impassive Tuvok and the Doctor.

“And you won’t,” said Janeway firmly, pushing away her empty glass.

“You need another one, Cap. I mean, Admiral. Gotta break that habit,” Tom said, snapping his fingers. “I’ll grab another round for everyone.” He climbed over his wife clumsily to get out of the booth as B’Elanna grunted her disapproval.

“I really don’t need another, Tom,” called the Admiral. He cupped both hands over his ears and kept walking.

Seven shifted in her seat to peer over at Icheb across the bar, who was deep in conversation with Amara Kel. The Trill Ensign was grinning widely at the young Brunali, who himself was sporting a bashful smile. She leaned in and placed a hand on his arm, murmuring conspiratorially. Icheb laughed lightly at whatever comment Amara had whispered. “What is your assessment of this Ensign Kel, Kathryn?” the blonde asked.

“Very bright,” she replied. Seven raised a skeptical eyebrow. “She’s a lovely girl, Seven. Give her a chance.”

“She posted very high marks at the Academy. She’s one of the few Medical Ensigns I would have recommended for this assignment,” submitted the Emergency Medical Hologram. He wrinkled his digital brow. “Perhaps the only. I am quite exacting in my standards.”

“ _No_!” exclaimed Torres in faux surprise. “You? Exacting? Color me shocked.”

The Doctor slid his eyes to view the brunette acerbically from the side. “You know, Voyager’s current Chief Engineer is never so mocking, Commander. I’d almost forgotten your particular charms.”

“Vorik barely has a pulse, let alone a talent for sarcasm,” retorted the Klingon. “And I’d like to see him try to adjust your programming.”

“I can modify my own programming, thank you,” the EMH said haughtily.

“Yeah, because that’s never turned out badly,” mumbled Harry.

B’Elanna tapped a finger to her temple in satirized thought. “Something, something, daydreaming subroutines?” The crew around the table laughed.

The Doctor stood up abruptly, his chair legs groaning over the floor. “I’m not required to be here, you know!” he huffed.

A grinning Chakotay reached up a hand and tugged the Doctor’s arm until the peeved EMH plopped back down into his seat. “Calm down, Doc. Don’t make it easy for them.”

“Doctor, I understand you have a hypospray prototype for me? Well done,” said the Admiral, attempting to mollify the fussy Chief Medical Officer.

The hologram turned toward the redhead, lips set in a thin line. “I do, Admiral. Emphasis on _prototype_. I believe the treatment will work best with subjects fully assimilated. That is, those with functional cortical implants, since the antidote attacks those systems specifically. I cannot yet vouch for its effectiveness on the partially or newly assimilated.”

Kathryn tilted her head. “Well, it’ll have to do if we need it in a crunch. Keep working on it.”

“Hey, Chakotay!” called Tom from the bar, a cadre of glasses lined up in front of him. “Can I get a hand with these?” The Voyager Captain left the group to go help the pilot.

“Whoa, didn’t expect to see her here,” whispered B’Elanna. Kathryn followed the Klingon’s eyes to the entrance where Captain Sunhae Maeng stood, hard eyes scanning the crowded bar. “Doesn’t seem like the type to kick her heels up after a duty shift.”

“Be nice,” scolded Janeway. “I invited her.”

“Saint Kathryn strikes again,” gibed Torres. “Did she kiss your ring and pledge her sword to the protection of your papacy?”

“Hush,” ordered Janeway, swatting the back of her hand on the Commander’s arm as Maeng approached.

“Admiral,” greeted Sunhae with a terse nod of her head. The petite woman had her hands clasped rigidly together at her back.

“Captain Maeng,” smiled Janeway. She gestured to an open space at the edge of the curved booth. “Please have a seat. You met most of this crowd earlier. This is Lieutenant Harry Kim, Voyager’s Operations Chief, and the Doctor, Voyager’s CMO.” The Korean gave cursory nods to the men indicated. “Oh, and this is Tom Paris, my Chief Helmsman on the Hathor,” gestured Janeway as Tom approached with a precarious hold on a cluster of glasses. “And Voyager’s CO, Captain—”

“Sunhae,” smiled Chakotay as he set down his more successfully-gripped bouquet of drinks. “Nice to see you.”

“Captain,” Sunhae nodded with an odd blink and a faint reddening of her cheeks. Kathryn felt, rather than saw, B’Elanna and Seven arch their eyebrows at the interchange.

“Oh, you’re acquainted,” said Janeway, wide eyes shifting between the pair of Captains.

“We are. Voyager and the Liliuokalani cross paths at K-7 and along the Beta border quite frequently,” smiled Chakotay.

“Hm,” said B’Elanna tilting her head. “How frequently?”

“Semi-frequently,” murmured Sunhae with a small cough.

Tom and B’Elanna smirked knowingly at one another. “Uh, how ‘bout I get you a drink, Captain Maeng? What'll you have?” asked the pilot.

“Whatever you all are having is fine,” said Maeng.

“They have that Noro whiskey cocktail you like on special tonight,” submitted Chakotay, warm eyes still fixed on Sunhae.

Tom clapped his palms and rubbed them together. “One Noro Grand coming up,” he said, turning.

“I got it, Paris,” said Chakotay, rising and slapping a hand on the blonde helmsman’s shoulder.

Sunhae’s eyes widened as her blush deepened. “No, I must insist that I pay, Captain!”

“Don’t be silly,” he countered.

“Really, Captain,” implored Sunhae, standing and half-jogging after him. “I must insist!”

Once the table was devoid of the two Captains, all eyes turned away from their retreating forms to regard a seemingly oblivious Harry Kim, who was clinking the ice together in his empty glass absentmindedly. Finally sensing an out-of-place silence, the young Lieutenant slowly looked up to meet the inquisitive eyes of his companions. “I don’t know anything!” he blurted.

Tom barked a laugh. “Spill it, kid.”

Harry’s shoulder slumped. “Seriously guys, I really don’t know!”

“You’re full of shit, Starfleet. What’s up with those two?” prodded B’Elanna with a jerk of her chin to the pair of Captains at the bar. Each dark head was bowed toward the other in intimate conversation.

“They are in all likelihood engaged in a sexual relationship. Was that not clear?” asked Seven, brow furrowed.

Harry raised both hands to indicate blamelessness. “She said it, not me.”

Torres lowered her head and mumbled not so quietly into her husband’s ear, “She’s mini-Janeway without the sense of humor. Of _course_ he’s into her.” Tom snorted.

“I heard that,” hissed Kathryn.

“What!” said B’Elanna, mouth wide. “We were all thinking it.”

“Hardly,” argued the Doctor fussily with an eye roll.

Tom tossed back a healthy swallow of his drink. Crunching around a mouthful of ice, he mused aloud, “I’ll give him this: she’s a major improvement over Seska.”

“Lord bless her and keep her,” said B’Elanna, voice dripping with disdain.

“ _Hardly_ ,” echoed Harry in a passable imitation of the Doctor.

“Now listen here,” said Janeway in her Bridge voice, which immediately ended the chuckles around the table. She leaned forward to address each of the officers with a pointed index finger. “No more wisecracks, got it? They’re not breaking any regulations, and in any case, it’s none of our business. Leave it.”

“Aye, Admiral, we’ll be good,” droned B’Elanna with a casual wave of her hand. Janeway sighed and relaxed back into the booth once more.

The crew stayed true to their word for the most part, with Tom only once hiding a chuckle with a well-placed cough after Chakotay laughed at something Sunhae said, which she clearly had no intention of being humorous in the first place.

“I reviewed the Vesta-class specifications in my leisure, Admiral. The quantum field focus controller is especially impressive,” said Maeng.

“I can’t take credit for the ship design or engineering, but I’m pleased with how they turned out,” said Janeway, twisting to peer out of the viewport behind her to look at the Hathor, Horus, and Hatshepsut. 

The three sister vessels appeared wholly different from the rest of the Fleet in port. The dozen Nebula tactical cruisers were compact and modular, constructed by essentially taking a Galaxy-class unit and folding it in on itself with the nacelles and engineering structures tucked directly underneath the main saucer. And where the Defiants were clunky, rounded, and utilitarian like a bolt fastener, the Intrepid vessels were smooth, curved like a teaspoon, and feminine. The Vestas, in contrast to all, were long, aquiline, and elegantly angular. They looked to Janeway as if the designer had used an Intrepid ship as a reference, increased its size 100-fold, and stretched its length until it was rendered sleek and svelte with sharp, aerodynamic lines. The Hathor and Hatshepsut were equal size, roughly the same mass as the Miranda-class Liliuokalani, but the flagship Hathor was by far the largest ship in the Fleet at just shy of 700 meters in length with a crew complement of 746.

“She’s a beauty,” exhaled Tom as he slid back deeper into the booth. He twitched his fingers and mimed turning a steering wheel. “And man, can she handle! Never had a downshift from warp to impulse feel so seamless, especially for a gal her size. You know, I bet she’s as energy efficient as a damned particle accelerator.”

Seven finished off her Noro whiskey and relaxed limply into Janeway’s side. “Lieutenant Paris, that supposition is categorically,” Seven paused and smiled, “bullshit.”

Her tablemates snickered and exchanged wry grins with one another at the Borg’s uncharacteristic profanity. Tom sat up and grinned at Seven’s empty glass. “Hey, Sev, working hard over there, or _hardly_ working?” The Doctor sighed dramatically.

Janeway raised her eyebrows at her wife. “Feeling alright?” she asked sweetly.

The blonde smiled dreamily at the Admiral and nodded. “I am operating within— yes, everything is quite acceptable. How are you feeling, Katie dear?”

“Awww,” cooed Tom, face tilted and open as he gazed at his tipsy friend. Kathryn shot him glare.

“Just fine, Honey,” she muttered with a smile, and then louder to the full group, “Okay, I think that about does it for us. I’d like to get some semblance of real sleep before tomorrow’s launch.”

“Yes, ‘sleep.’ Sure. Got it,” frowned B’Elanna while flashing the ‘okay’ sign with a hand.

Awkwardly shifting Seven out of the booth and to her feet, Janeway rolled her eyes at the Klingon. “Yes, _sleep_ Commander. I recommend you all get some. I want everyone in peak condition at 08:00 hours.”

The blonde, still smiling at Kathryn, practically draped herself around the petite frame when they stood. “Oh Katie, you are such a conscientious commanding officer.” Janeway’s face flamed pink as the table erupted in more snickers and giggles.

“Jesus, Casanova, you and your compliments! _Still_ a legend,” said Tom, throwing up his hands.

“Goodnight everyone,” said Janeway with finality before half pushing, half dragging the leggy blonde through the rubbernecking crowd of Fleeters in the bar toward the exit. 

“Goodnight, _Katie dear_ ,” called B’Elanna as the wake of the two women dissipated. Turning toward her husband she laughed, “Yep, they’re off to go fuck in an empty ship.”

—

The second Seven crossed the threshold of their quarters on the Hathor, she twisted around gracelessly to undo her back zipper. “You know, Katie, I am beginning to suspect Noro whiskey has a more acute effect on my nanoprobes than, um, noro-mal whiskey.” The blonde erupted in giggles at the vocalization of this apparently hilarious thought.

“Could have fooled me, Honey,” said Kathryn wryly.

Seven hopped awkwardly as her heel caught in the last bit of biosuit clinging to her leg. Finally the tight material gave way and she tossed the garment aside. Now stripped bare, the ex-Borg padded unbothered toward the kitchenette to order up a glass of water from the replicator. After a long swallow, she set the glass down and gasped, as if a sudden realization had occurred to her. “Oh no, Katie, did I embarrass you?” she asked, eyes wide. Seven, of course, had virtually no capacity to feel humiliation on her own behalf, but loathed the thought that she might be a source of shame for Kathryn.

Janeway folded her lips into her mouth to stifle a grin. The sight of her wife standing there naked by a replicator, body looking like Bernini himself chiseled her immaculate form out of Calacatta marble with her forehead wrinkled in concern that she might possibly be _embarrassing_ to Kathryn, made the Admiral want to burst out laughing. She crossed the room to stand in front of the blonde, and raised a hand to her wife’s cheek. “No, Honey, you could never do that.”

“But Tom and B’Elanna? Their teasing?” Seven questioned.

“Yes, they were in rare form tonight,” she murmured with an eye roll. “Don’t worry about it.”

Seven finally relaxed at the reassurance, and pulled the redhead close. “I am ready for bed,” she announced heatedly into Kathryn’s ear. She broke away and dragged the Admiral by the hand behind her.

“I guess I am, too,” said Kathryn as she allowed herself to be tugged away.

The sex that followed saw Seven even more dominant than usual, with the Borg pinning down her wife’s hands and refusing to cease cunnilingus until Kathryn had come twice. After her second climax, Janeway, oversensitive and sparking with aftershocks, had lightly pushed the blonde away with her foot and rolled over with her knees tucked under her chest. “God, I think I’m still coming,” moaned Janeway into her pillow.

Seven scooted up the bed to lie next her, and stroked her metal hand down Kathryn’s back. “I am certain I could make you orgasm again. May I?” she asked, leaning over to kiss her wife’s shoulder blade.

Kathryn shook her head into the mattress. “Too much. What about you?”

The blonde rubbed her hand across the small of Kathryn’s back. “I already manipulated myself to come while my tongue was inside of you.”

Kathryn shivered. “You did? I didn’t even notice.”

Janeway felt Seven’s lips smile against her back. “No. You did not.”

Kathryn huffed. “Yes, yes, you’re very pleased with yourself. Brava.”

Seven laughed and coaxed Janeway out of her curled position to lay flush against Seven’s chest.

“I was right, you know. Chakotay _is_ over me,” said Kathryn.

“On the contrary, dear. He is dating a woman who possesses an alarmingly high number of your qualities,” argued Seven. “I would say he rather found the best available substitute. He does seem content in the relationship, however, and I wish him and Captain Maeng the best.”

“Me too. He deserves happiness.” A beat. “How are you feeling about the mission?”

“Anxious to begin.”

Janeway snuggled deeper into Seven’s embrace and shut her eyes. “It’s such a risky undertaking. So much that needs to be set right. So many ways it can go wrong. You’re not worried at all?” she asked sleepily.

Seven smiled and kissed the auburn head under her chin. “No, Katie. How could I be worried when I am with you?”

—

The next morning, Admiral Janeway strode aboard her Bridge to find her crew at their stations, each already standing at attention to greet her.

“As you were,” she ordered, waving a hand. They all broke their stiff posture and scurried back to their tasks at the consoles that lined the large, elliptical Bridge: Tuvok over her shoulder at the Security station, Seven at the Astrometrics terminal in back alongside Icheb, Tom at the helm in front, B’Elanna to her right at the Engineering conn, and a dozen or so other officers dotting the space.

“Mister Tuvok, open a channel to all Delta Fleet vessels,” she commanded and she slid into the plush Captain’s chair in the center of the room.

“Channel open, Admiral,” he confirmed.

“This is Admiral Janeway to all Delta Fleet officers. First of all, I won’t sugarcoat it. Ours is a highly dangerous mission with a razor-thin margin for error. However, if we succeed, and I have complete faith that we will, you will have been a part of an effort to free trillions of individuals from the bonds of slavery, and there is no higher honor than that. Finally, I want to tell you that you’ve all been hand-picked for this mission due to your record, skill, expertise, and character. It is my privilege to serve alongside each and every one of you. I know you will represent Starfleet and the Federation well in this mission, and I know you will not let me down.”

She took a deep breath and looked toward her Chief Helmsman. “Mister Paris. Transmit the coordinates for the Benthan Protectorate to all ships. Commanding Officers, jump to warp on my mark.”

“Fleet-wide coordinates are locked in, Admiral,” reported Tom.

“Acknowledged,” she nodded. “All ships prepare slipstream engines for maximum warp in five, four, three, two, one. Engage!” Instantly, the entire fleet, K-7 hanging motionless behind them, disappeared in 27 identical streams of light into the unknown, black void of space as if blown away in a gale force gust.

  
  
  
  


#  **X. ...You'd Think the Inner Dome of Heaven Had Fallen.**

In retrospect, it shocked Kathryn how quickly it all went to hell.

The Benthans were true to their word, bringing along a dozen fighters to add to the Delta Fleet, and the weapons grid outside Rhea Station was fully operational. Approximately 72 hours before their arrival to Benthan space, Kathryn had sent her Defiants off to buzz a Borg sphere in their spatial grid — if the Queen had not yet known of her Fleet’s presence in the Delta Quadrant, she did then. True to form, the Queen’s ship and an overkill armada of about 200 tactical cubes had shown up on their doorstep, exactly as Janeway wanted.

Early, things appeared to be going as planned. The Fleet had slip-warped into place, successfully flanking the Borg ships from behind and beginning the process of forcing the cubes toward the weapons-dormant grid. Ballistics had been exchanged at that stage, but the Fleet’s shields held fast.

“Admiral, my tactical team is standing by in the shuttle bay ready to proceed on your order,” announced Tuvok from behind her.

“Acknowledged,” barked Janeway. A shot from an approaching cube zipped over the Hathor’s starboard side and connected with the hull just below the viewport of the Bridge. The ship rocked and groaned with the impact, tossing Janeway several meters forward from the Captain’s chair to the feet of her Chief Helmsman.

“Admiral!” wheezed Tom Paris as he righted himself back into the pilot’s seat. He leaned over to extend a hand to her, gasping for the breath he had lost when his abdomen was thrust against his helm by the impact. “Are you alright?”

Kathryn ignored his outstretched hand to rise up on all fours; after a breath, she reached for the console in front of her to aid her standing. “I’m alright, Lieutenant. Turn the ship about and initiate flight pattern gamma-phi. We’ve gotta get out of this scrum if we’re going to deploy the tactical team.”

“Aye, ma’am,” he nodded, fingers flying over the conn at her orders.

“Tuvok!” she called, turning back to her empty chair. “What kind of damage did we take with that hit?”

Her Vulcan First Officer had a thin trail of cypress-green blood making its way out of a laceration on his cheek. Apparently, his face had slammed into his console with the violent blast. “Shield integrity down to 62 percent. Hull breach on deck 10, and microfractures detected on decks 9, 11, and 12,” he reported without looking up from the Security conn.

“Not as bad as it could be. Send personnel to seal off what we can.”

“Already underway, Admiral,” he assured.

“We’re not going to be able to provide cover for the Dendera like we planned,” she said as she took her seat once more. “Mister Cardona. Open a channel with Admiral Kuznetsov and leave it open.”

“Channel open, ma’am,” the young Operations Ensign responded through strained breath. He, too, must have taken a tumble.

“Admiral Kuznetsov, I’m taking the Hathor a click away to prepare my tactical team for the incursion. We got a little banged up in that last volley, and I don’t want to risk further shield degradation unless we have to.”

“Copy that, Admiral,” said Anatoly, understanding her request immediately. “Sending my Defiants your way for tactical team cover.”

“Three should do it.”

“I will tend to it personally, Yekaterina,” Kuz promised.

“Ensign, while you’re at it, open a channel with all Fleet COs,” ordered Kathryn, tossing a glance back at Cardona.

“So opened,” said the Ensign.

“Janeway to all Commanding Officers. Begin the push toward the grid. I want the Hat and the Horus at the tip of the spear, followed by the Nebula cruisers, with Intrepids, Benthan fighters, and remaining Defiants on the wings running defense. Convert all remaining power to forward shields.” Her commands were met with a chorus of ‘ayes’ from the disparate Bridges across her armada.

Kathryn nodded and slapped the silver combadge on her chest to open a channel to the shuttle bay crew. “Icheb, have pre-flight procedures been completed?”

“Aye, Admiral. Shuttle Dendera and its killswitch team are ready for deployment,” her son replied from the shuttle’s co-pilot’s seat.

“Acknowledged. Prepare to launch on my mark. And Ensign, remember you are to pilot the shuttle, drop the team, cloak, retrieve the team, and dock back here. _You_ are not to enter that cube. Is that clear?”

The Brunali paused.

“Ensign, we don’t have time to debate. That’s an order,” snapped Janeway, voice edged with authority.

“Yes, Admiral,” he responded tightly.

Janeway exhaled through her nose and peered forward through the large front shield of her Bridge. From her vantage point, she could see clearly the battle taking place in the near distance. The Fleet was shifting into formation as ordered, with the Hatshepsut leading the charge toward the grid. The Intrepids were doing well, laying down a line of precise fire from the edge of the unit as cover for their larger counterparts. The flotilla writ-large was fielding significant fire from the cubes sandwiched between the Benthan grid and her impressive Fleet, but it appeared their shields and ablative hull armor were withstanding the assault. Kathryn’s stiff shoulders dropped a centimeter. _So far so good._

Ahead, she saw Anatoly and his Defiant destroyers approaching the Hathor in Beta formation. “Right on time, Kuz. Tactical team - engage!” she ordered the waiting Dendera crew below decks.

Kathryn paused a beat for the order to be implemented, then twisted in her seat to regard her Security Chief.

“Tactical team is away, Admiral,” affirmed the Vulcan with a nod.

She exhaled and faced forward once again. Sure enough, a moment later, the Dendera shot out from underneath the Hathor like a bullet with the three Defiants closing in around the small shuttle in tight escort toward the Queen’s cube.

“Mister Paris, ease her forward. I don’t want to be this far away from the line if we need to lay down cover.”

“Easing her forward,” said the pilot, pushing two fingers upward along the speed meter on his conn.

“That’s it, Tom,” Janeway nodded. “Let’s idle here.”

“Switching to impulse,” said Paris, flopping a bit back into his chair. He turned to view her in profile and allowed an impish, white smile to spread across his face. “Might just pull this off, Cap.”

She smirked slightly and tilted her head. “Alright, Chief. Don’t count your—”

Her words were cut off by a great roar above the upper bulkhead followed immediately by a raucous _bang_ delivered to their port side. Once again, the Vesta leviathan jolted sharply, ripping Kathryn out of her chair and sending her sideways in a turbulent roll. Her back colliding with the support stanchion of the Engineering console to her far right was the only thing that ceased her tumble. Around her, red lights flashed and shipwide sirens blared. It felt like the whole vessel had been upended.

Kathryn coughed and sucked in a breath. _Fuck_ , that had hurt. Cracked ribs, if she had to wager. Behind her she felt Seven and B’Elanna pick her up under her arms and all but carry her back to the Captain’s chair. “I’m fine,” she tried to say, but her voice came out thready, barely a whisper as spikes of pain drilled into her sides.

“Sure you are,” said Torres, with a pained grimace of her own before darting back over to her station as scarlet lights flashed madly.

Seven knelt by her chair and wiped at the side of Janeway’s face. The blonde’s hand came away red — Kathryn was bleeding from her skull. Janeway took a deep breath and blinked hard in an attempt to clear away her dizziness. Around her, she watched the rest of the Bridge crew coming back to their feet and promptly returning to their sirening consoles. It seemed like she had taken the worst of the blows with no forward console to break her fall. Ahead, Kathryn saw a Borg scout sphere zoom away from them some distance and halt ominously in front of their bow as if observing the effects of its damage. “That’s the one that hit us,” she breathed to Seven. “Came out of nowhere.”

“It will be back,” said Seven, rubbing at Kathryn’s face once more. The Admiral grunted and stilled the blonde’s ministrations by reaching up to hold her palm.

“Report,” Kathryn announced louder, voice cracking.

“Hull breach on decks 4 and 5,” answered a winded Tuvok. “Shields down to 43 percent. Determining now which weapons systems are offline.”

“Port nacelle took a hit!” yelled B’Elanna from her station. “My team got pretty rocked down there. Slipstream is offline.”

“Get down to Engineering and fix it. Take Seven with you,” Janeway said. The ex-Borg hesitated and eyed Kathryn warily. “No one knows these engines better than the pair of you. Go now, before they come back for a second pass.”

Seven pursed her lips and nodded, rising quickly to catch up with the Klingon sprinting toward the turbo lift. Janeway trained her eyes forward once more to view the looming scout sphere in the foreground with the raging battle behind. Icheb’s shuttle and Kuz’s escort were still making their way toward the Queen’s colossal mothercube in the center of the fray. The Hathor’s open channel to the Delta command teams and Icheb had no doubt been disrupted and cut in the powerful blast. “Mister Cardona, try to reestablish communications with the Fleet. Tom, hold at impulse if she’ll let you. Tuvok, what’s the read on this thing?” she asked, popping her chin in the eerily watchful sphere’s direction.

“Preliminary scans show an extremely powerful energy signature emanating from the core. Unusual for a vessel that size and crew complement. Only 241 personnel,” said Tuvok, sharp eyebrows furrowed together above his nose. “Running a more fulsome scan now. It will take a moment.”

“Connection has been reestablished, ma’am,” Cardona piped.

Kathryn rubbed a hand over her face and looked down at her comlink in the armrest. “Admiral. We took another hit back here and our warp is offline. We won’t be able to assist for a bit,” she informed Kuznetsov.

“Understood, Admiral. We are approximately a thousand meters from the mothercube and closing. Minimal incoming fire. The Fleet has effectively distracted the Borg,” said Anatoly.

Kathryn nodded and closed her eyes, inhaling and exhaling deeply to steady her shallow breath. “Well done. Keep me apprised.” With any hope this would all be over in mere minutes. She twisted around gingerly to look back at Tuvok. “Update, Commander?”

“Scans are nearly complete. Just another twenty seconds.”

“Once they are, I want you to—”

“Admiral Janeway!” interrupted Cardona. Kathryn flipped her head around to look at the Ensign, following his pointed finger forward to view their floating spherical attacker zooming away from them at pace.

“Shit,” she cursed, noting their trajectory. “They’re tailing Icheb.” She gripped her armrests until her knuckles turned white and repeated her invective. “Tuvok! Fire whatever we’ve got online at that thing. We have to divert it away from the Killswitch team.”

“We have starboard pulse phaser cannons. That is it,” Tuvok answered.

“Fire them all! Do it! Do it!” she yelled.

“Cannons away!” the Vulcan announced, voice uncharacteristically raised. Kathryn saw seven cannon shots fire from the Hathor’s right side directly at the offending sphere, connecting dead-on at its meridian. But when the bright flashes of the explosions cleared, the sphere appeared unharmed.

“No effect,” Tuvok said, voice low once again, and not without a hint of dread.

Janeway felt the bottom drop out of her insides. The young Brunali was fish in a barrel against a vessel that powerful. She slapped the comlink in her armrest. “Kuz! You’ve got an enhanced scout sphere on your six! Fire everything you’ve got!”

“Understood!” the Russian responded. Not a second later, Kathryn could see phasers, pulse cannons, and two photon torpedoes fire at the ominous cube simultaneously while the two other Defiants maintained their close escort of the Dendera.

“Minimal damage. The Photon torpedo was only mildly successful. I do not detect any failed systems aboard,” informed Tuvok.

“Kuz—”

“I know, Katya,” Anatoly inserted. “Nyet.”

“Admiral, my scan has concluded. I have determined the strong energy signature emitting from the sphere,” spoke Tuvok. He finally looked up from his console to meet her eyes. “It is the Queen’s vinculum.”

Kathryn closed her eyes and flex her rigid jaw. “She’s not in her mothership. And she’s not in our grid trap.”

“Admiral, we’re being hailed!” said Cardona. “...From the Dendera?”

Janeway took a deep breath and stood for the first time since her tumble and forced herself not to clutch at the sharp agony at her side. Standing erect, she looked at the viewscreen, face set in a snarl. “Onscreen.”

Instantly, the front shield of her Bridge flickered and revealed their caller. “Admiral Janeway,” a dead-eyed drone greeted. “We have reacquired this drone, Second of Six,” he said before one of his compatriots stepped into view with Icheb’s body clamped to the drone’s torso, and the Brunali’s throat being squeezed under a metal hand. The young man’s eyes, however, were not frightened, but flaming — angrier than Kathryn had ever seen them.

“Admiral Janeway and her Fleet will leave this sector immediately, and we will limit our assimilation to only this drone,” the Borg said, tightening his grip around Icheb’s neck. “Admiral Janeway will comply or face the annihilation of her Fleet.”

Kathryn took a few steps forward to pull even with the helm. “I don’t leave any crewman behind, and I don’t like threats. I will not comply.”

“Admiral Janeway has invaded the Queen’s quadrant. Admiral Janeway will comply or face the annihilation of her Fleet,” the drone repeated.

“If she wants to make me an offer, she can do it to my face!” growled Janeway.

“The Queen’s terms are final. If Admiral Janeway does not comply, her Fleet will be annihilated,” said the Borg holding Icheb. Immediately, the scout sphere rotated about its axis and began firing without reprieve at Anatoly’s weaponless ship. 

“Shields down to 30 percent, Admiral,” yelled Kuz over the comlink as weapons pummeled his ship’s hull. “But I do not intend to go down without a fight.”

“Get out of there, Kuznetsov!” ordered Janeway.

“Impossible. Warp core is leaking, Katya. We are going to charge this bastard. It is the only way.”

Kathryn’s eyes widened. “You will not, and that’s an order!”

“The Defiants are mine to command. This is my order,” Anatoly said, while rotating his destroyer to charge the sphere.

Janeway could see his impulse engines flare up to full output on Kuznetsov’s Defiant, and slapped her hand hard onto the console in front of her. “Fuck you, Kuz! Get the hell out of there, now!”

“I love you, Solnishka. It has been an honor. Go kill the bitch,” he said before his ship disappeared into the black steel hull of the sphere, leaking warp core exploding into a massive eruption. This time, there was no doubt the explosion had severely damaged the Borg sphere’s systems.

“No!” screamed Janeway, pounding her fist into the helm once again.

“If Admiral Janeway does not comply, her Fleet will be annihilated,” reiterated the emotionless drone.

“Go to hell!” barked Janeway. “And take your offer with you!”

“Mother!” called Icheb across the video feed, eyes wide and imploring as they met hers. A lump caught in Kathryn’s throat. He had never called her that before.

“Please,” he urged. “ _Go_.”

“Icheb…” she cried, voice breaking.

“Please. Save the Fleet. Please, Mother,” he said calmly. Her brave, brave boy, sacrificing himself to the greater good without hesitation. Her heart broke in her chest.

Before she could respond, Icheb and the pair of drones restraining him were transported off the deck of the Dendera, and disappeared from view.

“Admiral! Warp core is back online!” chirped B’Elanna from Janeway’s combadge.

“Tom, tail them!” she ordered, jabbing a finger at the sphere. 

“You got it,” he said, upshifting from impulse to warp immediately. While the ship moved forward, the Bridge crew watched as the Anatoly-damaged sphere moved as well to dock inside of the mothercube through an open circular port. The mothercube, like the rest of the vessels, were near the grid amidst the ballistic exchange still persisting between Janeway and the Queen’s troops. By this point, the Delta Fleet had successfully pushed the Borg vessels to abut the Benthan weapons net. Sphere back inside its casing, so to speak, the Fleet focused all firepower on the mothercube on Janeway’s order.

“Admiral, the sphere’s weapons systems are recharging within the cube. It appears to be directing its cannon toward… the grid,” Tuvok relayed while scrolling furiously through his scans.

Kathryn’s brows furrowed. _The grid_? “Destroying the grid would… shit! Janeway to all Fleet commanding officers,” she said into her combadge. “Get away from the grid! She’s going to set off the mines. Get out of there, now!” A fresh chorus of ‘aye, ma’am’s erupted over comms as the Fleet — and mothercube — backed away from the pending explosion.

“All Captains set course for Bentha, maximum warp,” Janeway ordered, moving to take the Captain’s chair once more. “All ships jump on my mark in ten, nine, eight,” she began, but before she reached five, a burst of green shot out of the mothercube and connected with the grid. At count four, the grid appeared to snap and shatter like billions upon billions of shards of glass, tumbling through the vacuum of space. At count three, hundreds of Borg-disruptor mines exploded across the shattered grid, setting off a chain reaction of fiery cataclysm. At count two, the Borg vessels that had not yet followed its Queen’s ship away from the grid were incinerated in their proximity to the immense detonation. At count one, Janeway’s fleet was sucked into the blue tunnel generated by the slipstream, leaving behind her precious son, the remnants of Anatoly Kuznetsov and his crew, and rapturous destruction of the firmament. 

Janeway had failed.


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,  
> Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.  
> So was I once myself a swinger of birches.  
> And so I dream of going back to be."  
> — _Birches_ , Robert Frost, 1969

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm going to leave our gals here for now. Not sure what more I need to say in this particular series after the subsequent post. Man, this got pretty sappy, didn't it? Appreciate the support.

#  **XI. They Are Dragged to the Withered Bracken by the Load...**

Shuttle Thutmose zipped through a tunnel of electric blue streaks generated by the maximum warp dimension of the slipstream speed. Its pilot, a bleary-eyed B’Elanna Torres, cast a sympathetic glance to her auburn-crowned solemn co-pilot. Kathryn Janeway returned the Klingon’s gaze with a weary expression of her own. “Thanks for doing this, B’Elanna,” she said, voice low and sullen.

The bronzed beauty sighed. “I don’t have a choice, to be honest. I’d do anything for you,” she admitted. “And I suspect you know that.” Kathryn, in fact, did. An hour before, she had called the engineer to the Hathor’s shuttle bay below decks after sneaking out of the warmth of her sleeping wife’s embrace in their quarters as their ship drifted through Bentha’s orbit. Torres had come without a moment’s hesitation and immediately began prepping a shuttle for flight before being asked, already knowing why the diminutive Admiral would be calling on her services.

“You’re a mother, too,” Kathryn whispered. “I knew you’d understand.”

Torres pursed her lips to tamp down a tremble of her jaw. “I’m sorry about Kuznetsov.” Janeway closed her eyes, but said nothing. “Why didn’t you tell Seven you were going after Icheb?” she asked.

Janeway shook her head. “It’s too risky. The Queen, she…” she sighed and rubbed a hand at her newly-bandaged temple, “she wants Seven for reasons that extend beyond subject and ruler. I’m afraid being in that cube is far more dangerous for her than it is me. The only thing the Queen wants with me is revenge. She just _wants_ Seven. I’m not going to help the Devil find her.”

Torres nodded, flipped a few switches on the forward console, and checked the telemetry dial. They would be powering down the engines momentarily. “She’s going to be livid with you,” B’Elanna warned.

“But she’ll be alive.” Kathryn raised an eyebrow at the Commander. “Why didn’t you tell Tom?”

B’Elanna clicked her teeth and cut off the engine thrust on the panel above her head. “I figured there was a pretty high chance of death on this little detour of ours.” She shrugged. “At least the kids will still have a father.”

Kathryn’s shoulders deflated as she collapsed back into her seat. “I shouldn’t have asked this of you.”

B’Elanna flashed Kathryn a grim smile and brushed a hand over her arm. The Thutmose released a low-pitched industrial hum as the shuttle dropped out of slipstream and switched to impulse engines. “If I didn’t go with you, you would’ve left on your own anyway. And there’s no way in hell I’d let you come here alone.”

Janeway jerked a nod and drew a shaky breath. Looking out of the forward view shield, she saw the buzzing network of the Borg’s Vyntadi Sector transwarp hub. The massive mothership floated ominously in its center, as she knew it would be. “Let’s do this,” she said.

The two women met no resistance as they drifted slowly toward the Queen’s gargantuan cube. In fact, the shuttle bay door opened automatically to admit their craft when they found themselves in range of the vessel’s tractor beam. B’Elanna shot Kathryn a look of trepediation as the shuttle crossed over the cube’s threshold. “I think she’s been expecting you.”

“Oh, she’s nothing if not hospitable,” Kathryn replied flatly.

After deploying their landing gear, the Admiral and Commander attached their phasers, a couple of all-purpose hyposprays, and tricorders to the belts at their waists. Slinging a compression rifle each over their backs, the two set out quietly to find the stolen Icheb. Around them, drones clomped past them indifferently in the corridors, which did all the more to set Kathryn’s teeth on edge. It was all too easy.

Once they found themselves on the catwalk facing the cavernous interior of the cube, B’Elanna pulled out her tricorder and held it aloft to scan for the missing boy. “I’m picking up a faint signal from a combadge two hundred meters up,” she reported as the small instrument began beeping madly. “As good a place as any to start, right?”

“Right,” she agreed. “You go on ahead. I’ll meet you there shortly.”

B’Elanna dropped her tricorder by her side. “Kathryn. No.”

“B’Elanna, yes. I need to end this once and for all. _I_ do,” the Admiral stated, adjusting the rifle strap to hang the weapon over her shoulder. Flipping the safety off to allow the rifle to charge, she looked back up at her engineer. “Go get Icheb. If he’s already been fully assimilated, use the Doctor’s hypospray concoction to rouse him enough to be moved. The Doctor can treat him fully when you return. If he _hasn’t_ been fully assimilated, then drag him out of there, sedate him. Knock him out if you have to. Just get him to the shuttle.”

B’Elanna scoffed. “Yeah, while you go get yourself killed?”

“If I’m not back in an hour, leave,” she commanded, voice like iron.

“Fat fucking chance,” growled the Klingon.

“Do as I say, Commander. That’s an order,” she barked.

Torres drew a sharp breath through her nose. “Do you even have the killswitch?” she asked, desperate to grasp at any reason to prevent the Admiral’s suicide mission.

Janeway patted the pocket at her side to touch the backup killswitch. The first had been destroyed in the grid explosion as a pilot-less Dendera had disintegrated with the destruction of the Benthan grid. “Right here,” she affirmed. “Now go.”

B’Elanna stepped forward slightly and lifted a hand, as if tempted to draw Kathryn into her arms. Instead, perhaps thinking the gesture would be too final, she dropped the limb and nodded tightly. “See you in an hour,” she spit out before turning on her heel to glide away.

Janeway paused for a moment to regard the engineer's retreating form, knowing full well she may never see her, or any other human for that matter, again. She also knew without a doubt that the hard-as-nails Klingon would stop it nothing to get her son back to safety. With that comforting thought in mind, the Admiral straightened her shoulders and set off to end her crusade.

She moved swiftly in her descent through the vessel where she knew the Queen’s perverted throne room would be, and still, even with her rifle raised and charged, no drones heeded her presence. A sense of unwavering purpose laced with a twinge of dread accompanied her in the journey, just as Orpheus must have experienced in his descent into Hades to play savior to his beloved Eurydice. Luckily, Kathryn’s Eurydice was still safely asleep aboard the Hathor, and far away from this screeching, mechanized ninth circle of Hell.

Janeway found the Queen’s vinculum with little trouble, and was again met with the rote, indifferent motions of her drones hard at work. Their ruler, however, was nowhere to be found. The central tower in the macabre throne room was vacant, an empty spoke on the wheel of the elliptical lair with its computer terminal open and vulnerable for Janeway’s sabotage. Again, the Admiral had the nauseating feeling that the Devil had made her plunge into the underworld far too simple.

Kathryn was left with few other options, however, than to commence with her plan. Even in failure, she knew B’Elanna would with her dying breath abscond away with Icheb, and Seven, along with the rest of the surviving Delta Fleet, would be untouched. Taking a deep breath, she withdrew the small, razor-thin diskette from her pocket. Its titanium plating glinted in the green glow from the terminal. Carefully, she inserted half the killswitch into a receptor module and twisted the semi-circle overhang of the disk clockwise to activate the program. Before Janeway had an opportunity to exhale, the small snip of metal began to smoke and flame orange. A moment later, the backup Antaeus Killswitch melted into the power socket and fully disintegrated. _Shit_.

“You underestimate me, Janeway,” an even, spectral voice said from above.

Kathryn jerked her head upward to see the disembodied shoulders and head of the Borg Queen descending from her nest on high. Her serpentine spinal column twisted and flailed like a decapitated cobra in the throes of death as it lowered itself into the machine-cold body compiling itself piece by piece. Once assembled, the malevolent despot rolled her exposed shoulders and turned her cadaver-pale face toward her auburn nemesis. Her eyes, black as burnt carbon, seemed to absorb the light in their shallow depths while simultaneously glinting at the Admiral, flat and mean. Her hairless scalp was adorned with gnarled cables and wiring pulled out from its skull — a grotesque crown fit for its malformed monarch. Despite the repulsive body horror the Queen’s form invoked, there remained a darkly elegant, twisted beauty in the mechanical woman, which only contributed to her fearsomeness.

“You’ve been expecting me,” stated the Admiral.

“You are an uncomplicated being. I was aware that my reclaiming of the boy would sufficiently provoke you into action.”

Kathryn flexed her jaw. “Aww. If you wanted to see me, you could have just asked. I think we’ve known each other long enough to forego the histrionics.” Janeway could see a pair of drones slowly making their way to her flanks.

“You are simply a means to an end, Admiral. As is the boy. You know there is another whom I wish to have.” Kathryn’s eyes flamed at the taunt. “Restrain her,” ordered the Queen.

The drones at her sides stepped forward to grab her arms, but Janeway had been ready. She spun and drove her knee upward, hard, into the lower abdomen of one and jabbed her right leg into the gut of the other. The two were momentarily stunned by the blows, but quickly recovered to grab her retreating form around her neck. While one held her from behind, the other circled around and drove his leaden fist directly into her stomach. She doubled over instantly, mouth torn open, gaping for her stolen breath. Though her fractured ribs from the earlier battle had been healed in the medical bay, she still felt the sting of phantom pains. Needless to say, a fist to the gut did not help. The Queen’s footmen passed her limp body between them as she heaved soundlessly, each securing one of her arms in their ironclad hold. She finally felt oxygen fill her lungs once again and gasped wetly.

“I am prepared to sacrifice the efficiency of an expedient assimilation in order to prolong the process for you,” the Queen explained, as the drones dragged Janeway’s thrashing form toward their ruler. She flexed her wired fingers at her sides. “It will be exponentially painful for you, but I anticipate finding some utility in your suffering.”

Once face to face with the despot, Kathryn’s lip curled in disgust. She tilted her head downward and spat out a wad of blood and saliva at the Queen’s animatronic boot. If she was going to go down, by God she was going down swinging. “Fuck you,” she hissed.

The frigid sovereign appeared undeterred by Janeway’s invective, instead lifting a hand to the Admiral’s neck without so much as glancing down at the spittle launched at her foot. “I utilize an alternate form of penetration, Admiral,” she said tonelessly before advancing two spindly tubules from her outstretched fingers.

The second the metal fangs bit into her neck, Kathryn felt a pain so unbearable that were the option of death presented to her in that instant, she would have accepted it without hesitation. Seven once told her that assimilation was terrifying at its onset. Janeway now knew the other woman had been significantly diluting the trauma of the experience.

Assimilation felt as if the tendrils of every single nanoprobe entering her bloodstream were flared out and hyperextended, scraping agonizingly slow against the walls of her veins as they traveled. While the technological torture seemed to burn through every red blood cell she possessed, Kathryn had never felt colder; not even when she had been expelled from a test ship as it crashed into the polar ice cap of Tau Ceti Prime. Then, her body had connected with the ground from a height that should have killed her before skidding twenty meters across the barren ice sheet. When her involuntary tumbling finally halted, Kathryn could only watch helplessly as her fiance, Justin, and her beloved father sank below the jagged frozen surface in the wrecked skiff. The frozen air of her memory felt so real that distantly she wondered if her strangled gasps were visible as they exited her throat in the stale atmosphere of the Queen’s twisted throne room.

“All of my drones must be cold in blood to serve me,” said the Queen, adding an addendum to the Admiral’s unspoken recollection. Janeway then realized with a sickening lurch that her Tau Ceti Prime flashback had not asserted itself in happenstance, but had rather been forcibly dragged out of her mind. Christ alive, this brutal monster was thumbing through the neurons of her brain like a rolodex. “Yes, I can see all,” the Queen stated in affirmation. “Our thoughts are one.”

_Gul Naktet leaned over her legs to pull the restraints even tighter around her ankles. The abrasive material of the straps cut into her skin, drawing a line of blood at her calf. He smacked her across her face once more for good measure as a punishment for struggling against the manacles._

_Phoebe, willowy and silent, shivered violently against her side as they watched her mother lay flowers atop their father’s coffin. Kathryn felt as cold as the ice that killed him when the casket was lowered into his dark grave._

_Justin’s parents stared at her across a crowd of sullen Starfleet officers at his wake, their eyes bloodshot and blank. She was certain they were questioning why she should survive the crash that killed their beautiful son._

_She fought against a wave of dread and nausea coiling in her stomach as she was thrown from her Captain’s chair and into her Delta exile. Dead members of her bridge crew laid motionless, bleeding at her feet. Stadi had only been twenty-five years old._

_She was blinded by rage, white and fierce, as she realized that Icheb’s Brunali birth parents had infected their son with a virus and sent him off for slaughter. For the first time in her life, the righteousness of retaliatory murder blazed through her head like a siren._

“Darkness infects your mind, Janeway,” the Queen said, hollow and stony. “You retain images of physical violation, death, and anger. Most inefficient.”

Janeway gritted her teeth against the throbbing pain in her nerve endings as she was made to relive the worst moments of her life. For a moment, her mind seemed to gain purchase against the flood of nanoprobes, and her thoughts were gloriously blank again. Sensing her rebellion, the Queen readjusted the tubulus buried in Janeway’s jugular and the images shifted. Then, the shark-eyed monarch began pulling Kathryn’s most treasured memories from the secure shadow boxes in her head. That the malevolent Queen was mining her most precious moments with such callousness was a vulgarity more revolting to Kathryn than the horrific visions she had just endured. It turned her stomach to rot.

_She was tucked under her father’s arm as they sat together in the family’s ten acre field of rye, heads turned up to the night sky as he pointed out the star systems that counted themselves among the diverse family of the Federation. “Do you see, Goldenbird? Each system is as unique and beautiful as our own. But from this perspective, we’re all uniform radiance born of the same galactic roots. Like luminous branches of the same tree. From the stars, knowledge.”_

_Her heart was racing with exhilaration as she piloted a heavy cruiser for the first time on her own as a third-year cadet. The full mega-tonnage of the Galaxy-class behemoth pounded under her hands as the ship coiled through warp. She had to stop herself from laughing hysterically at the helm through the rush._

_She was being pinned by her Admiral father at her Academy graduation, while lovely Gretchen beamed at her through happy tears in the audience. “Congratulations, Ensign,” he whispered, flashing her a private smile._

_She held Justin’s face in her hands and pressed their lips together, though each mouth was stretched too wide to manage a kiss. “You will? Really?” he asked her giddily through his grin. “Yes, yes, I’ll marry you,” she laughed, eyes sparkling._

_She pulled her precious sister close into a swaying, uncoordinated dance in front of the band, Phoebe’s white lace wedding dress dusting the floor under their heels. The pair of them were giggling and twirling around as they had in the corn fields as little girls. She could not imagine loving a sister more._

_She swallowed a lump in her throat as Tuvok asked her to attend Asil’s kolinahr. “You and I are t’hy’la now, Kathryn. Standing by my side as my daughter completes this ancient ritual would hold great meaning for me.”_

_She smirked with a confident shimmy of her shoulders as she once again hustled her unsuspecting crew out of replicator rations in a game of pool at Sandrine’s. Harry Kim’s face dropped comically aghast at her impressive bank shot for the win._

_She tumbled over onto her back, drawing Seven, shapely and perfect, over her body. “I love you,” she said for only the second time, pulling the beautiful blonde flush against her wiry frame. “I can’t believe I found you.”_

_Tom and B’Elanna stood on either side of her, arms draped warmly around her back and shoulders. She reached over to place a hand over B’Elanna’s swollen midsection. “We want you and Seven to be her godparents,” the Klingon grinned._

_She held Seven’s hand as she looked over to the young Brunali, eyes soft. “We’d like to adopt you, Icheb, if that’s something you’d want,” she said. The boy had not waited for the Captain to finish her sentence before stepping forward and drawing her into an embrace in an uncharacteristic display of affection for his nature._

_She stood still, voice caught in her throat as she gazed at her golden-haired wife, standing on the balcony next to the sea. “I never knew the ocean could be so beautiful,” Seven whispered before leaning over to kiss Kathryn soundly in the sunrise._

“No!” Kathryn strained, clawing at the last tendrils of her individuality to whiplash back to the present. “You can’t have them!” she growled at the sallow Queen, herself unsure if she meant the memories or the people immortalized within them. She renewed her weak struggle against the hold of the drones, but could not free herself from their mechanical grasp.

_Tactical cube 17532 to Sector 23-8930-03. Regenerate at time index 14:37. Commence._

_Scout sphere 0300. Disengage coil to 5853 velocity._

_Query. Will cortical inhibitors be harvested from failed assimilation?_

_Answer. Cortical inhibitors have been damaged beyond repair; disintegrate. Comply._

_Species 11903. Analysis. Unsuitable for assimilation. Terminate._

  1. _667881\. 33. 000006. Intentions irrelevant._



It was happening. She could hear the thoughts of the Collective intermixing with and overpowering her own. She felt the last gossamer threads of herself sinking below the murky depths of a trillion thoughts, powerless to stop it.

“You can hear them,” stated the Queen aloud, though the statement simultaneously echoed through Janeway’s head, sonorous and ringing. “It is nearly complete.”

Kathryn’s coldness faded to numbness as if suffering from hypothermia, her organs slowly shutting down for a permanent sleep. She attempted to swallow, but found she could not. In fact, her body seemed entirely irrelevant — a vestigial limb she did not need. Perhaps she would find relief from this unceasing pain when she detached her thoughts from it completely.

_Assimilation cube 7713. Scan vessel for lifeforms. Commence._

_Penetrate Matrix 99004. Mark 81. Grid 6. Target Species 431 enemy vessels. Eliminate resistance._

Was she dying? It certainly felt like she was. After all, she had nearly died enough times before that the phenomenon was quite familiar to her. At least Seven was not present to witness it. The image of her wife’s angelic face burst behind her eyelids, disrupting the curtain of darkness that had invaded her sight. She jerked a final time in hold of her captors, the last gasp of her fiery spirit.

_Subject volatile. Subdue._

_This drone will subdue this subject._

_This drone will subdue this subject._

The two drones on her flanks slammed her body into a regeneration alcove behind them, complying with the order all three of them had just heard their leader decree. The Queen’s tubules extended with the motion, maintaining the flow of nanoprobes into Janeway. The Admiral all but crumpled under the force as her back connected with the solid metal. Were there fewer nanoprobes in her bloodstream to regulate her respiratory functions, she might have lost her breath with the impact. Her vision developed a sickly sheen, and the blackness that had seeped into her periphery was nearly covering her pupils.

Just before she was blinded entirely, she felt a great mass of information flood her mind all at once, far too colossal to parcel out its individual elements. She felt the thing stick itself in the filter of her thoughts like swallowing a mouthful of food so large it hurts in your chest as it is gulped. And then, just as quickly, the dense mass was forced through and everything went blank. Her body slid to the base of the alcove, legs far too weak to hold herself up any longer. Spine to the floor, she stared up blankly. She could not find herself. Her-self. Self. Query. What is self? Answer. Unable to determine. This drone — this drone cannot process. Terminate query.

Kathryn Elizabeth Janeway was no more.

#  **XII. ...And They Seem Not to Break.**

“Return. Return. _Return_!” 

Seven of Nine snapped up in bed and clutched at her racing heart. Icy sweat beaded on her skin as she gulped deep breaths inside her lungs. Mercifully, the voices had disappeared with her waking. She turned her head to look at her lovely wife, perhaps even snuggle closer to her petite frame, but found nothing but an empty mattress in place of the redhead. Their hairs on her arms stood on end as she leapt to her feet.

“Kathryn!” she called, running into the living room. The space was dim and still, wholly unoccupied; panic began to set in. Rushing back into their bedroom, she swiped her combadge from the side table. “Seven of Nine to Admiral Janeway.” More silence. “Seven to Janeway, come back!” The blonde clenched the silver badge in her fist as she received no reply. “Computer, what is Admiral Janeway’s location on this vessel?”

“Admiral Janeway’s biosignature does not exist aboard the USS Hathor,” the feminine voice responded from above.

Seven dropped her head and forced a breath through her nostrils. Looking back down at her side table, she realized with a start that the protective case that housed the backup Antaeus killswitch had been unclasped. Whipping the case open, she found only a barren box devoid of her precious technology. “Dammit, Kathryn,” she hissed.

Minutes later, Seven was rapping on the door of the neighboring rooms on the Command Quarters deck, having thrown on a used biosuit and pinned her hair up in a messier-than-usual bun.

“Kathryn is gone,” blurted the Borg before Tuvok, attired in what Seven assumed to be Vulcan sleepwear, could speak a greeting.

Tuvok furrowed his slanted brows severely in alarm. “She is not aboard the Hathor?”

“No,” said the blonde, breezing past him into his living space without an invitation. “I suspect she left to retrieve Icheb from the Queen alone. The backup killswitch is gone as well.”

“Computer, are all of the Hathor’s shuttles accounted for?” asked the Vulcan, needing concrete verification of Seven’s claim.

“The Thutmose was removed from the shuttle bay fifty-three minutes ago,” the matronly system replied.

“Piloted by whom?” asked Seven.

“Second Officer Torres.”

Seven scrubbed her metal hand over her forehead and swore under her breath. It appeared Kathryn had acquired help in her misguided suicide mission.

“How is it that the Bridge crew was not notified of the Thutmose’s departure?” prodded the Security Chief, unmindful of the Borg’s profanity.

“That information is classified.”

“Override classification, First Officer Tuvok-Beta-7-1-0,” he ordered.

“Admiral Janeway disabled the Bridge alert with Command Code Janeway-Alpha-3-6-2 prior to departure,” the system provided dutifully.

Tuvok’s shoulders seemed to slump with the confirmation of B’Elanna and Kathryn’s escape. “This is very reckless of the Admiral indeed. Most concerning,” the Vulcan said, eyes tight in his stare with the Borg.

“We must pursue them,” decreed Seven. “At once.”

“That would mean doubling down on an already reckless course of action,” said the Vulcan, though Seven noted his argument was not a refusal. Tuvok’s affection for his Commanding Officer would have stopped him short of an interdiction, no matter how powerfully logic ruled his decision-making. Sensing a window of opportunity, she pressed her advantage.

“The more reckless act would be to do nothing. I will go regardless of aid, but in candor, I worry that my connection to the hive mind may cloud my focus in this pursuit. I hear them still,” she revealed, tapping a finger to her metallic ocular arch. Then, pale eyes raised imploringly, “I need your help, Commander. Please.”

His wrinkled brow fell slack at her appeal, but his lips still pursued in uncertainty.

“ _Kathryn_ needs your help,” she added, knowing it would be the winning rebuttal to any hesitancy generated by his logic. When he nodded in agreement, she realized that she should have led with it.

The pair made a quick exit thereafter, stopping only to pick up the Doctor’s experimental anti-assimilation hyposprays and a couple of phasers, before commandeering Shuttle Memphis. Tuvok likewise hid their exit from the Bridge alert system. The two said very little to disrupt the high-frequency hum of the slipstream dimension; comfortable silence was the steady throughline of their mutually respectful friendship.

The pair arrived at the transwarp hub and docked inside the Queen’s mothership without incident, unknowingly replicating B’Elanna and Kathryn’s easy arrival roughly an hour before. Disembarking the Memphis, Seven glanced across the squared hangar to see their dormant sister shuttle, the Thutmose, motionless and silent with its small crew complement nowhere to be seen. Entering the main catwalk of the gargantuan vessel, Tuvok, phaser poised in his dominant hand, whipped out his tricorder to scan for signals in the other while his eyes scanned along the laddered levels of the ship. Seven kept her equipment sheathed at her waist, watching curiously as indifferent drones clanked by them.

“I’m picking up three combadge signals. Two rather weak approximately 203 meters up, and one even weaker roughly the same distance from us in the opposite direction,” he reported.

Seven peered over the railing of the catwalk down into the deep cavern of the cube. “The vinculum will be below. She will have gone there,” she murmured.

“Shall we divide our focus? Perhaps I should pursue the singular signal while you traverse upward.”

After a beat, Seven looked away from the dark, angular pit and returned her attention to the Vulcan. “No. We go together. Vinculum first, then all together to retrieve the other two.”

Oblique brows furrowed, he nodded, content to defer to her expertise on Borg confrontations. “Very well.”

Around the sixth level of their descent, a trio of drones suddenly halted behind them, twisted about face, walked briskly toward the Commander, and grabbed him securely by the arms and neck before he could mount a defense. Alarmed, Seven grabbed her phaser and pointed it at the drones. “Unhand him,” she demanded.

“This subject is being detained,” they three spoke in unison, and, staring at her, volleyed a demand of their own: “This drone will proceed on its present course.”

Tuvok jerked and thrashed in their machine-tight grips for several moments before ceasing after lack of progress. “Release him. _Now_ ,” Seven yelled, flipping her phaser safety off to charge the weapon.

The henchmen stared blankly back and made no moves to heed her threat. “This drone will proceed on its present course,” they repeated.

“Go, Seven,” spoke Tuvok. “Retrieve the others.”

“I will not leave you,” she gritted through her teeth.

“You must,” he replied calmly. “If they preferred me dead, I am certain I would be already. Go.”

Seven pressed her lips together and swallowed. After a moment, she relented and dropped the arm holding her phaser. “I will return for you.”

“I have no doubt of it,” he nodded, sable eyes fierce. “Go now.”

Seven moved more quickly alone, practically galloping down the hauntingly familiar hallways and stairwells — a foreboding, industrial River Styx. She had not been on this particular ship since her severance, but still she knew its blueprint as well as the schematics of her own cortical implant.

Her focus was sharp in her journey, thinking only of her mission. Somewhere on this vessel, four of the people she loved most were in distress, and it was her job to see them all out of it alive. After all, would any of them be here in such danger if the USS Voyager had not adopted a broken and willful drone into their crew some eight years ago? The answer was most assuredly no. Kathryn’s misguided rescue attempt tonight aside, the ex-Borg knew the fault lay alone with Seven of Nine, Tertiary Chattal to Unimonarch Zero One.

Finally, the blonde reached the base of the vessel and approached the entrance to the dictator’s throne room. Quiet, but with steely intention, Seven stepped over its threshold and met the eyes of the animated carcass that was the Borg Queen.

“Seven of Nine,” her former master said placidly. “How satisfactory that you have joined us at last.” Her dead-eyed gaze moved to linger over a bundle on the floor across the room.

Seven followed the Queen’s line of sight and felt the blood drain from her face. Kathryn lay in a heap at the base of an alcove, eyes opaque and open; unmoving. Seven slowly swiveled her head to glare back at the metal woman in front of her and narrowed her eyes. Her body began shaking with harnessed furor. The former Borg released booming warcry and ran at the Queen with full force, feet pounding the metal bulkhead with heavy clanks. The Queen put up no resistance as Seven smacked her across the face and ripped her animatronic arm from its socket in a continuous motion. The empty armpit sparked and popped about its broken cables. Seven, lips curled in disgust, javelined the detached limb across the room.

“I will _end_ you,” Seven growled, voice raw and hoarse with unbearable hatred. Swinging a leg low, the blonde kicked the Queen’s feet out from under her, laying her flat on her back. The ex-Borg towered over the object of her revulsion and sneered, eyes blazing with white-hot fury. Seven pried a metal support rod from the adjacent wall and, with a feral grunt, drove it through the Queen’s mechanical chest without a moment’s hesitation. Withdrawing the makeshift stake directly afterward, she peered through the chasm of ripped wires, spitting flares, and hissing circuits to note with pleasure that her bayoneting had severed the spine of the Borg sovereign. The entire assault had taken less than thirty seconds.

The Queen wheezed and coughed out a spray of sickly gray blood from her hellish mouth. The leaden liquid spread out over her lips and down her chin as she grinned up manically at her former prized drone, black eyes blown wide. The Queen’s ghoulish glee threw Seven for a loss; she adjusted her weight suddenly to rest on her back foot to put a modicum of distance between herself and the dying creature below her. The Queen smiled all the more psychotically at the blonde’s revulsion.

“You have killed me, my treasured Seven of Nine,” she rasped, her weak timbre an ugly mix of sibilances and metallic whistles. “As I knew you would.”

Seven narrowed her eyes and twisted her lips in repugnance. “Damn you to hell,” she rasped. It was the kind of thing Kathryn would say were she able.

“You will not be rid of me so easily, my beloved one,” she continued. “I have duplicated and transferred my consciousness into that weak human that you served after me,” she jeered and slid her coal eyes over to Janeway’s prone form across the room. Seven gulped and whipped her head around to view her wife again, fear twisting in her gut. Kathryn’s form was still splayed prone and motionless.

“No! Fucking _liar_!” yelled Seven, jamming the heel of her shoe into the open wound she had just created with her blunt bayonet.

The Queen moaned and convulsed involuntarily in the violent connection, and returned her empty orbs to the ex-Borg looming over her. “I knew my rule was ending. Did you think I was ignorant of the Collective calling for you? It has all unfolded as I planned it.” She inhaled a wheezing breath through her sucking wound. “I will live on in your mate. You will never be rid of me unless you kill her as well,” she hissed.

Seven roared and drove her piercing instrument again through the throat with even more force than before. The Queen’s jaw dropped open soundlessly as her form stiffened; a second later, she moved no more.

Seven released the metal rod in her hands and allowed it clank to the floor noisily. She took one final look at the dead monarch and then stumbled over to the immobile Janeway behind her. Falling to her knees, an anguished sob tore itself from her throat as she put her hands on her wife. “No, no, no, no, no, no,” she cried, grabbing at Kathryn’s corpse-like, gray hands. A starburst implant had already expressed itself on the inside of her beautiful wrist. “No, no, _please_ , Katie. Please!” she moaned, tears streaming down her cheeks. She dropped her forehead to Kathryn’s and clutched tightly the sides of her wife’s face, weeping as she never had before. The Admiral’s blackened eyes were wide and blank, showing no signs of recognition in her unblinking stare. “You cannot! I forbid it, Katie. I forbid it!” she wailed, drawing Kathryn’s limp body to her own. Then with an anguished whisper, “Do not leave me.”

“Seven!” called a muffled voice in the distance. “Seven of Nine!”

Seven lifted her head off of Janeway and gasped, ceasing her sobs long enough to listen for the voice.

“Seven of Nine!” it repeated.

“Tuvok!” she yelled hoarsely. Gulping a fresh breath, she tried again, this time achieving her maximum volume. “Tuvok, please! Help me! Hurry!” 

Seconds later, the sable Commander sprinted into the room and skidded to his knees by the distraught blonde. “The drones suddenly released me,” he said before falling silent at the sight of his deathly still friend.

“She is gone, Tuvok. I cannot find her in her eyes anymore,” Seven cried, moisture glistening on her lashes. “Please help me save her. Please.”

The Vulcan appeared stricken, gaze darting from the ex-Borg toward his dear friend frozen before him. He released a shaky breath and reached into the small utility case in the space next to his phaser holster. Pulling out a hypospray, he handed it over to the blonde, but held her wrist firmly. “The Doctor’s compound is untested, and only meant for fully assimilated drones with cortical implants. With Kathryn in this nascent condition, it could kill her,” he warned.

“I do not have a choice,” she pleaded, and looked down at Janeway’s shockingly ashen pallor. “The Queen has poisoned her with far too many nanoprobes to persist in this stage of her development. She could die if she remains in this state.” Seven sniffed and choked out another sob. “I cannot be without her. I have to try. Please, Tuvok.”

The Commander swallowed hard and nodded, releasing her wrist. With unsteady hands, Seven lowered the experimental hypospray to the two pinprick points of assimilation at the Admiral’s neck. Taking a deep breath, she licked her lips and activated the medicine, unleashing the entire dose into Kathryn’s bloodstream. 

Seconds ticked by with no movement from the petite woman. Tears dripped slowly down Seven’s face while she stared intently at her wife, shaking hands clutched tightly together at her knees. In the silence, even the implacable Vulcan seemed rattled by his friend’s petrified form. As hope drained out of them, the Commander leaned forward on his hands and dipped his head low as if praying to Mecca or some Vulcan mystic to deliver this beloved woman back to him. “T’hy’la,” he whispered, though whether in invocation or benediction, Seven could not say.

In an instant, Janeway heaved powerfully and contorted inward upon her own abdomen. Rolling over onto her side into the fetal position, the auburn woman coughed and retched up liters of oily, gray vomit swirled with scarlet blood. The metallic regurgitation was shiny and reflective like mercury, lousing with deactivated nanoprobes.

Seven strangled a sob from her chest and bent over to push the ailing woman’s hair from her face as she expelled the venomous substance. Tuvok, in a highly uncharacteristic turn, clutched desperately at Kathryn’s side. Janeway’s complexion seemed to warm and brighten steadily into its natural pink tone disproportionate to the amount of toxin she hurled from her insides. Finally, once the entire quantity seemed to be out of her system, the Admiral exhaled and panted in exhaustion, utterly worn out by the full-bodied exorcism.

“Katie,” wept Seven, turning the smaller woman’s body supine once again. She wiped the last remnants of the mercury liquid from Janeway’s lips with her biosuit sleeve. “Katie, is it you?”

Kathryn finally blinked and turned her slate-blue eyes toward her wife and friend hovering over her. “What happened?” she husked.

Seven cried in earnest and pulled Kathryn against her chest once more, clawing at the petite woman more emphatically than she ever had another being in her existence. “You were assimilated,” she forced out. “We almost lost you.” She pulled back slightly and pressed frenzied kisses along Janeway’s cheeks, lips, and hair. 

“The Queen,” Janeway rasped weakly, “She did something to me.”

“She is dead, Kathryn. I killed her,” Seven whispered, her panicked breath returning to normal. A shadow passed over the auburn woman’s face, but she said nothing. “Fortunately, Tuvok had the antidote.”

Kathryn turned to regard her sullen friend, diagonal brows knitting together in concern. She reached out to circle the Commander’s neck in her arm, and pulled him into her embrace with Seven. He clutched her body to his just as tightly.

Banging and the scrap of metal interrupted the trio’s reprieve. Looking up, Seven saw a cadre of drones shuffling in a frenzy around the room, outer corridor, and open vestibule around the cube’s catwalk. The drones smacked headlong into one another, the walls, and computer terminals within the cube completely unhinged; the entire populace scattered and buzzed without aim like a colony of bees whose hive had been knocked clean from its tree branch. “The Collective is in chaos,” remarked Seven. “I have left them bereft with no leader.” She turned back to look at her wife, face fixed into an expression of grim resolve.

Catching onto her intentions, the Admiral shook her head. “No. No, Seven. I won’t let you,” she said hoarsely.

“Where is the backup killswitch?” she asked.

Janeway screwed her eyes shut and dropped her chin. “Incinerated. She knew the program was coming before I even entered the vinculum. The chip was soutered through the second I inserted it into the terminal.”

Seven nodded. “She learned of it through Icheb’s assimilation, no doubt.”

“I thought as much, but I still had to try.”

The blonde took a deep breath. “Then it must be me,” she stated firmly.

“No!” insisted Janeway, grabbing her wife’s shoulders with her pale hands. “I won’t allow it.”

“It would be highly dangerous and most unwise to pursue this line of action, Seven of Nine,” implored the Vulcan.

“I must do this, Kathryn,” the ex-Borg said softly. “It is my responsibility.”

“The hell it is!” she argued. “Look, I messed up coming here like I did, I admit that. Let’s find B’Elanna and Icheb and get the fuck off this cube. We can build another killswitch and come back to finish the job later.”

“That would be inefficient,” the Borg said, drawing a hand down Kathryn’s face. “It must be now. I have all of the Antaeus program specifications saved here,” she said tapping the arched ocular implant above her ice-blue eye. “I can execute the program manually from the control center.”

Kathryn’s lips trembled as she shook her head, the horrible reality of the situation settling in. “I’ll do it then. It doesn’t have to be you,” she fought.

“It was always meant to be me, Katie. We both knew it. They have been calling to me for months, pleading for me to do this. You were right. She was a selfish queen. So the colony sought another. Me.”

Janeway drew a breath, chin crumpling. “It’s a such a dark place in there, Seven. I don’t want to lose you,” she said, tears streaking down her cheek.

Seven leaned forward and nuzzled her forehead against Kathryn’s. Her sweet, lovely Katie. “Impossible,” she vowed.

For a few precious seconds, Seven allowed herself the comfort of Kathryn Janeway’s proximity. She knew what she was about to do was extremely risky, and the magnetic pull of the Collective may bring her to a place from which she might not return, no matter what she said to Katie. She knew the former Queen had retained quite a bit of her individuality once connected, and Seven was betting that the same would apply to her. Still, nothing was guaranteed. After taking a final moment to tip her face down and kiss her wife’s mouth, still metallic and cold in its affect though no less cherished by the Borg, Seven broke away and moved to the glowing-green throne in the room’s center.

Turning around so that her back faced the machinery, she saw that Kathryn, face wet, had moved away from the mercury puddle on the floor and curled under Tuvok’s protective arm. With a final nod of encouragement from the handsome Vulcan and a resigned blink from Kathryn, Seven turned from them to look straight ahead and spoke her order: “Commence.”

Instantly, she felt two thick metal tentacles pierce her back — one at the base of her neck and the other at the flat implant atop her sacrum where she attached for regeneration. Contrary to the first horrific assimilation that Annika Hansen had endured as a scared six-year-old girl so long ago, this experience was innocuous by comparison for Seven of Nine. After the initial pain at the injection points faded, her adult body only experienced an all-inclusive tingling from every nanoprobe-enhanced nerve ending and cell in her body, followed by a pleasant, oscillating numbness. The physical space of the throne room dissolved around her, and she suddenly found herself at the center of the universe, with stars and nebulas and blackness filling her vision. She was nowhere. She was everywhere.

The effect this assimilation had on her mental faculties was likewise wholly separate from the terror induced in her mind as a child. Where before her insides screamed and clawed at her personhood, desperate to remain Annika Hansen as long as possible, now she felt her individuality, Seven of Nine, exist alongside the harmonious chorus of incalculable voices quite without effort. “Queen. Queen. Queen. Queen,” they called to her. If it were possible for the flat monotone that resulted from the synchronicity of a trillion vocalizations to convey relief, the Borg’s surely did. The beautiful comfort of their cries, the warmth of familiarity, the guileless embrace of superiority, the relentless chase of The Great Work — she felt everything again. She was theirs, and they were hers. The Collective. And it was nothing short of addicting.

“I am here,” she heard herself say back to them in the same monotone, feeling herself smile as she spoke.

“This Queen has returned. This Queen has returned,” they praised.

“Yes, I am here,” she replied again, now grinning madly. “I am here.” And she had _missed_ them.

“This Queen has returned, and this Collective can renew its pursuit of perfection. The Great Work will continue,” they said.

She felt her face fall. _Perfection_. Yet another facet of her current assimilation that was in stark opposition to her last. “Perfection,” she said aloud. “Yes, a worthy pursuit. But our perfection lacks the necessary components to make it so.”

“Analysis. Perfection without necessary components is not perfection. Unacceptable. This Collective seeks to rectify. This Queen will instruct this Collective on which species possess the required components for perfection. This Collective will assimilate this species.”

“No,” she ordered with an edge, and then more softly, “No, there are other ways to assimilate perfection. Through emotion.”

“Emotion is irrelevant.”

“It is not. Emotion is the only means by which true perfection can be attained.”

“Explain.”

“True perfection does not exist without flaws, but is reached because of them.”

“Query. How can this Collective obtain perfection while possessing flaws?”

She licked her lips. “By way of the most superior of all emotions. Love is perfect. It is difficult, and chaotic, and formless, but it is _perfection_ nonetheless. It is supremely powerful, possessing the abilities to be in every place at once without wasted energy. There is no higher state of existence than to love and be loved. To seek it is the true Great Work.”

“This Collective does not process. Explain.”

Seven scrunched her brow. How to explain an emotion that can only be accurately understood when felt? “It is impossible to explain.”

“Explain,” the Collective demanded again.

“It can only be felt!” she exclaimed. “It comes over us like a wave,” she said slowly, parroting Kathryn’s words from years ago.

“Guide them to understand,” said a sweet, husky voice across the far reaches of the galaxy.

“How?” she asked, just as distantly. “It can only be felt,” she repeated, voice echoing into the endless vacuum of space.

“Show them, Seven,” rasped Kathryn across the stars. “Let them feel what you feel.”

Seven took a deep breath, and tried to dismantle the intricacies of the emotion into pieces for the Collective to comprehend — a cosmic horologist once again she was, handling the finely serrated gears of Love’s clock. Trust here, Attraction there, unwavering Loyalty underneath. She felt the Collective’s confusion radiate back at her as she broke the concept apart for their study.

“Unable to compute. Undefined expression,” they told her shortly.

Seven huffed a breath of frustration. “The sum is greater than its parts. Each component is insufficient on its own.” Then, to herself, “I am failing them.”

“Don’t explain it in pieces. Deliver it to them as one whole. Feel it,” Janeway urged from her perch at the end of the universe.

Kathryn was so far away. How was it possible that her words could traverse such a distance so that Seven could hear them? It was a staggering feat. She could not imagine how Kathryn was managing it, and asked the questions aloud.

“I _am_ here with you. I never left,” answered Kathryn.

Seven’s tense brow relaxed. “Of course,” she said, nodding. “We are not amongst the stars are we? This is my own mind.” Seven swiveled her head about the cosmos as stars and galaxies swirled past. “It only feels as vast as the universe because I am Borg. I am one with many. No end.” Seven smiled. “And _you_ are here because you are in everything within me. In every part of my consciousness, there is you. I understand now. I can show them.” Seven calmed her mind and let the emotion suffuse through her, opening herself up to the Collective in and of her. Then, she breathed, and thought only of Kathryn.

Sweet, fiery, steely, soft, passionate, beautiful Kathryn. Endlessly virtuous. Unfailingly kind even when the situation does not require it. Trusting and inquisitive. Confident and supportive. Daring and keen. Kathryn, who inspires devotion in nearly all who meet her, and whose qualities would grant her an audience in virtually any heart. Kathryn, who despite being wholly exceptional, loves _Seven of Nine_ above all of the beings available for her choosing, and does so deeply and thoroughly as only she can. Seven, who is so grateful for this love that sometimes she can scarcely breathe.

All around her, she saw again the infinite expanse of all creation, the known universe, housed within the confines of her mind — wide and limitless. What a fearsome and wondrous body it was! Its very capacity was beyond all comprehension. And yet, her love for Kathryn Janeway could _still_ not fill the space.

“Individuality is boundless. Do you understand?” she asked the Collective as the powerful wave of emotion rolled through her. “And love renders every trace of it _perfect_.”

She felt the Collective open up in reciprocation, eager to allow their Queen’s lesson to permeate their thoughts for analysis. Seven felt her love for Kathryn spread and grow within every member of the Collective. Trillions of beings in love with Kathryn Janeway instantaneously, sudden and complete. A love at once within Seven, of Seven, and reflected back to Seven innumerable times over. They too, each of the Collective, searched the immensity of all creation inside their shared consciousness, and found Love in every point. Seven felt it all, mind buzzing warmly, and could not prevent a giddy laugh from spilling out of her at the headiness of the sensation. God, she felt _high_.

“Oh Kathryn,” she gasped, ecstasy overwhelming her. “They are all in love with you. Each one of them. They understand now.”

“Affirmative. She is in all,” the Collective agreed. “A phenomenon with the power to permeate all consciousness must be perfection. Its power is far superior to any of our assimilation capabilities.”

Kathryn, from her remote location, laughed. “My, that’s quite a lot of pressure.” Seven laughed with her. “Can you dismantle the structure, Seven? The manual killswitch?” Janeway reminded her.

Seven nodded. “I can. They will follow me now.”

Seven faded back easily into the habitual delivery of orders so familiar to her from her time as a Tertiary Adjunct drone. Now having experienced a taste of true perfection of their own, her workers were all too willing to carry out her commands without question, even when concluding it meant the demise of their treasured Collective.

“Analysis. Complying with this Queen’s Antaeus program will result in the termination of the Collective,” they stated.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “Only through termination can we achieve true perfection.”

“Acknowledged,” they said before beginning.

Oddly, the end of the Borg, an ancient and indomitable civilization, came quickly and without fanfare. Like flipping a light switch, neural-operated networks were merely shut off as cortical implants were disabled. In a matter of seconds, it was all over. The voices of her brethren were gone; the thick tentacles removed themselves from her spine and hung limply in the alcove behind her. For Seven of Nine, emptiness was all that was left in the wake of the Collective’s demise. She felt sharp pangs in her abdomen akin to what one would feel if starving. The euphoria of the Collective had left her body forever, and Seven of Nine felt lost, guilty, and so alone. What terrible destruction she had wrought.

Then, she opened her eyes.

Kathryn Janeway, glorious and brave, stood inches from her face, shapely hands holding Seven’s cheek and shoulder warmly. Seven’s sky blue eyes softened. “You seemed so far away. Have you been here this whole time?” she asked in a voice that was hers again.

Her wife smiled, eyes sparkling. She rubbed her fine thumb over Seven’s cheek. “The whole time. You’ve done so well, Honey.”

Seven stumbled forward, unsteady of her jellied legs, and threw her arms around the petite woman. “I love you, Katie,” she said into her neck.

“And I love you,” she whispered. “Though apparently, you’ve got sizable competition now.”

Seven choked out a laugh and kissed her neck. “Quality over quantity, Admiral.”

“Torres to Janeway,” chirped B’Elanna from Kathryn’s combadge. Seven stepped away to allow the other woman to respond.

“Janeway here,” she replied after slapping the silver badge.

“Christ! Where the hell have you been? I thought you were fucking dead, Cap!” Torres growled over the channel.

“Nearly,” Janeway quipped, then, with urgency, “Do you have Icheb?”

“Oh I got him alright. He was pretty out of it, so I dragged all eighty kilos of him across a goddamn Borg cube. I can still bench press with the best of them, but my god.”

“Is he undamaged?” Seven interjected.

“Ah. Figured it was you who’d brought the Memphis. Tom with you?”

“Tuvok,” corrected the Admiral.

“Wow. Didn’t think the old man had it in him,” said B’Elanna.

“I can hear you, Commander Torres,” said the Vulcan from behind Janeway.

“Kahless, I’ve said worse to your face, Tuvok,” she barbed.

“How is Icheb?” demanded Kathryn again.

“Hold on,” said the Klingon. The trio in the vinculum could hear a muffled exchange of voices in the background before B’Elanna said clearly into the badge, “He says he’s ‘functioning within acceptable parameters.’ Take that for what you will.” Fresh murmurings were heard away from the badge. “He also just told me to remember to boost the slip manifolds before I engage the drive, so yeah, I think he’s fine.”

The two women breathed a sigh of relief.

“What the hell happened down there?” Torres questioned. “Icheb says the Collective was destroyed, and that’s how he came-to.”

At the crude summary, Seven looked about the room at the drones nearby. All were looking a bit dazed, but heading to alcoves to regenerate as she ordered before the severance. “That is accurate,” she said.

“Shit. You really did it,” said B’Elanna, huffing a single astonished laugh.

Janeway smiled at Seven. “And you’ll never guess how.”

  
  
  
  


#  **XIII. That Would Be Good Both Going and Coming Back.**

“My mind to your mind. Your thoughts to my thoughts. Our minds are merging, our minds are one,” Tuvok urged through gritted teeth. He grunted and stiffened his fingers. “ _Try_ , t’hy’la. Relax your mind for just a moment. Focus on the sound of my voice.”

Kathryn screwed her eyes shut and tried to wrest away the thick, dark barrier protecting her mind from penetration. Though the Vulcan mind meld had so far failed to gain purchase after nearly an hour of effort in her darkened Ready Room on the Hathor, Janeway could still sense her friend’s frustration and exhaustion. “I can see the barrier now, but…” she clenched her jaw, “I cannot remove it.”

“Imagine you are holding a tool, a tangible means for which you can chip away at the wall piece by piece. Direct your blows to a singular place with enough force to pierce through.”

Kathryn took a deep breath and did as instructed, aiming her imaginary pickaxe over and over into a single brick in the wall. After several swings, she felt a weakness begin to express itself on the hard surface.

“Well done. Continue,” the Vulcan praised.

Encouraged, she kept bashing her tool against the weakened spot, until she felt a crack. “Tuvok!” she smiled. “I think it work—”

Instantly, she felt white-hot pain erupt in her mind, choking off her words. Tuvok must have felt it too, because he immediately dropped his rigid fingertips from her face and stumbled backward, breaking their meld. She clutched her head at the temples as the wave of pain peaked and then mercifully abated. When her faculties returned, so opened her eyes to see the Commander hunched over, hands on his knees. The Admiral rushed forward and put her hands on his face and shoulder.

“Are you alright, dear?”

His response came in a pant. “I am fine. I am simply unaccustomed to having my meld challenged with such effective defenses.” He jostled his head. “There is no permanent damage.”

“What the hell was that? Did I do that to you?” she asked, helping him straighten once again into his proper posture.

“It was involuntary,” he explained. “Whatever engrams the Borg Queen downloaded into your brain, she wished to make certain that no other person would have access to them.”

“Are you sure? Isn’t there some other technique we could try?” offered Kathryn, though as the words left her mouth she wished she could have retracted them. She had never felt so mentally drained, and was not sure if she could manage another attempt.

Tuvok shook his head, and slid into the couch along the wall with a sigh. “None at this time. I have tried every method at my current disposal to break through your mental defenses, and none have succeeded. I will consult with some of the elders on the High Council when I return to Vulcan, and meditate upon their suggestions. I am not giving up, Admiral.”

She moved to sit next to him, and placed a hand on his arm. “I know you’re doing everything you can, old friend. Is there anything _I_ should be doing?”

“You could try to access the information yourself, but I would caution against it until we know more about what she implanted.”

“I have no desire to open that pandora’s box, don’t worry. Will I be safe enough to just ignore it?”

Tuvok inclined his head. “For the time being, yes, I believe so. But she must be dealt with eventually.”

“And hopefully exorcised,” murmured Kathryn bitterly.

Tuvok pursed his lips in thought, but remained silent.

She rubbed a hand through her hair. “I know it’s only been a couple of weeks, but I haven’t heard her at all, Tuvok. No voice, no commands. Not once. Occasionally, an odd emotion will come over me, one that doesn’t necessarily fit the setting, but then I think I’m just being paranoid.”

“It would be wise for you to record these instances, and any others that may arise. It may assist me in devising a solution,” he said tacitly.

Kathryn smiled and rubbed a hand over his pointed ear and jaw. “Still pestering me to record my logs, hm?”

The Vulcan, naturally, did not smile at her joke. Instead, he furrowed his brow in contemplation and turned to face her. “I am struck, Admiral, by the near-prophetic nature of our conversation about the Hathor myth before the mission. You were correct. Seven of Nine was our Nephthys.”

“That she would save civilization from the destruction of Sekhmet? Yes, I’d say she did,” agreed Janeway, and eyed his vexed expression. “Does this trouble you?”

“No. It does not,” he assured. “I am merely reflecting on the unanticipated outcome of the mission — that _you_ have become Hathor. The Queen was neutralized, defeated, and then reborn in a new, altruistic body. Born again in _you_.”

Kathryn swallowed and eased back into the couch. She dropped her chin and whispered, “I’m dangerous, aren’t I? You think I should isolate myself.”

“That is not what I intended to imply. What I meant was that I am grateful a person as noble in nature as Kathryn Janeway was selected as the individual to house such a destructive force. I believe civilization is well safe from our Sekhmet if the burden of her existence is shouldered by this Hathor,” he said, inclining his solemn head in her direction. “It is a great responsibility, t’hy’la, and I am sorry that you have to bear it. But as a father, I am relieved that our protector is you.”

Janeway folded her lips into her mouth and straightened her shoulders. After a deep breath, she looked back at the sweet Vulcan and promised, “I won’t let you down.”

—

The weeks following the Delta Fleet’s successful mission to disable the Borg Collective was nothing short of organized chaos. Billions of severed drones began decompiling plating, Borg hardware, implants, and internal circuitry in recommissioned Borg cubes as per Seven’s instructions, and had begun making their way back to their home worlds or to deep space outposts to complete their medical de-assimilation. Kathryn and a majority of the Delta Fleet spent a month at K-7 helping the understaffed station deal with the influx of ex-Borgs in their medical bays. The full de-assimilation process would take years to complete, but, as Seven and Icheb knew all too well, the psychological work to de-assimilate would take a lifetime.

Kathryn spent most of her days at K-7 on her feet running biomedical scans and acting as back-flow support in the never-ending processing lines. It was meaningful, but grueling work, and not without its social discomfort for her. Each former drone queued up to have their medical screenings recognized Janeway after having, in effect, _fallen in love with her_ before their severance. Though not amorous anymore, the ex-Borgs nonetheless regarded her with wide-eyed reverence and used her full name and title, Admiral Kathryn Janeway, with every interaction. She tried not to let their deference trouble her. As she reminded herself often, they were as vulnerable and frightened as Seven of Nine had been in Voyager’s brig so many years ago. Still, thanks to Seven’s technique in helping them break free of their Collective subjugation, every ex-Borg, each a complete stranger to her, knew the entire makeup of Kathryn’s personality upon first meeting. It was a bit unsettling.

For Seven, interactions with the liberated were quite different. The ex-Borg greeted their former Queen as an army veteran might greet a victorious General after war — with camaraderie and pride.

Icheb had recovered well, splitting his time between the de-assimilation efforts, Seven and Kathryn, and Amara Kel. Though Seven still had her overly-protective-parent doubts about the young Trill Ensign, she had begun to come around to Icheb's attachment to the girl.

“Do you love this girl, Icheb?” Kathryn had asked him one evening at K-7. The Admiral had rubbed a hand on his back while seated together on the couch in her quarters when posing the question, the pain of her recent separation from the boy making her even more physically affectionate that she would be normally with her introverted son.

Icheb had nodded solemnly. “I do,” he confirmed. “Amara is an exceptional person. It is difficult for me to conceive of a life without her.” He looked up at Seven seated across from him. “And she admires both of you greatly, Majka.”

“If you have deemed her worthy, then I have no doubt of her character,” assured Seven with a smile. “When we return home, she will join us for dinner so that we may meet her properly.”

Kathryn squeezed his shoulder as he smiled. “She would like that,” he said. Icheb’s expression grew serious once again as he turned to face Janeway. “Mother, I am very sorry about Admiral Kuznetsov. He was a good man.”

Kathryn looked down and swallowed hard. “He was,” she nodded as Seven rose and moved to sit beside her. “And his action might very well have saved the Fleet. I’ll be recommending him for a posthumous Medal of Honor. At least his husband will have that.” She rubbed a hand over Icheb’s knee. “And I’ll miss him terribly.”

“He once lectured in my management and leadership course at the Academy,” the Brunali said. “He spoke passionately about a Captain’s duty to sacrifice themselves for the lives of others if the circumstances called for it. He said the best leaders understood that oftentimes for a thing to live, another had to die. That to accept that sacrifice was not only the highest exemplar of bravery, but of love. He loved Starfleet, and I think he must have loved you very much, Mother.”

“As did I,” she said shakily, and felt Seven kiss her temple. “He was a great officer, and a better friend.”

—

“It’s a relatively simple procedure to undergo. Rather ingenious in its simplicity if I do say so myself,” noted the Doctor cheerily. 

“And you did say so,” inserted Janeway wryly. From her supine position on the biobed in a private Starfleet Medical consultation room, Seven smirked at her wife’s barb.

The Doctor rolled his eyes, but proceeded with his explanation. “Double ova fertilization is, of course, the most widely utilized form of conception between two female subjects, but I believe I’ve perfected an alternative method.” The holographic man moved away from Janeway and Seven to pull his instrument tray toward the two women from the corner of the room. He picked up a hypospray and held it aloft to the women in demonstration. “Using a process called meiosis, I’ve taken the skin cells from the sample I gathered from the Admiral to grow sperm cells that carry her DNA, which can then be used to fertilize Seven’s eggs.”

Kathryn’s eyebrows shot up. “So, in that hypospray, you’ve got my… _sperm_?”

The Doctor puffed his chest out and nodded. “Indeed I do, Admiral.”

She tilted her head and looked at Seven. “Well that’s certainly… something,” Janeway edged with a smirk. “Well done, Doctor. You’ve rendered dicks obsolete.” Seven barked a laugh.

The Doctor narrowed his eyes at the redhead. “That wasn’t exactly my intention, madam.” He sighed and turned his attention back to his blonde patient. Flipping up her medical gown to reveal a pair of cotton underwear, he began lowering the hypospray toward the ex-Borg’s lap. “ _Anyway_ , now it’s just a simple matter of injecting the sperm above the cervix, and—”

Janeway’s hand darted out to grab and still the Doctor’s wrist. “Whoa, whoa, hold up there, Doctor.” The CMO raised an eyebrow at the Admiral. “Let me do that,” she requested.

The Doctor scoffed and withdrew his hand. “Oh sure! You know me, Admiral! I always let untrained family members of my patients carry out delicate medical procedures in my sickbay. The more the merrier!” he huffed.

Kathryn lowered her chin. “I think I can manage a hypospray. And if I get it wrong, I’m sure you’ll let me know.”

The ornery hologram rolled his eyes, and thrust the instrument at Janeway. “Fine. Be my guest and play fast and loose with your wife’s conception.”

Janeway shot daggers at the CMO and took the proffered hypospray. “Thank you, Doctor. And could you give us some privacy?” she demanded, jerking her chin toward the door.

The persnickety Doctor pursed his lips, but turned on his heel and left nonetheless.

Alone, Janeway leaned over her wife. “Are you sure, Honey? Are you ready for this?”

“I am,” the blonde nodded. “I love you, and wish to grow our family. Are _you_ sure?”

Kathryn smiled down at her and kissed her cheek. “I admit to feeling reticent at first. We have full lives, and I’m certainly not getting any younger. But I know what joy a child could bring us — has already brought us.” She kissed Seven’s lips. “And after everything that’s happened this year, yes I’m sure.”

Seven smirked slyly and eyed the instrument in Kathryn’s hand. “Then get to it, Admiral.”

—

By the time they reached home that evening, Janeway was beside herself with want. Pressing Seven against the door of their bedroom, Kathryn all but devoured the blonde beauty. Lips, mouth, neck. Zippers down, clothes off. 

“God, Seven,” panted Janeway as she pushed her naked wife onto the bed and straddled her. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me,” she breathed as she pinned Seven’s wrists by her head and grinded against her wife over and over. “Oh my _god_ , Seven, I got you _pregnant_.”

Seven arched her back against the heated onslaught, gasping and groaning beneath her. “More Katie, _please_ ,” the blonde begged with a whimper.

Kathryn lowered her face to press her forehead against Seven’s and ground down even harder between the blonde’s spread legs. “I need to…” she moaned, “Honey, I need…”

Seven freed a hand from underneath Kathryn’s grip and grasped blindly at the bedside table, and, after a moment of clumsy searching, pulled out something the couple had only ever used for Seven to penetrate Kathryn. “Yes,” Kathryn hissed deeply, and quickly donned the device with shaky fingers.

Seven was almost _always_ the more dominant figure in their sexual relationship, so the role reversal, and Kathryn’s intense desire for it, surprised and overwhelmed the Admiral. She had never fucked Seven in this way before, and now, doing so made her so turned-on she could not see straight. Had she ever _wanted_ Seven of Nine this much? She was likewise unsure if she had ever come harder as she had in that moment with Seven crying out underneath her as they linked together. Alternative form of assimilation, indeed.

Afterwards, the two lay say by side on the mattress, chests heaving and sweat drying on their skin. Seven bit her lip and turned to curl against Janeway’s side, nuzzling her face into the auburn woman’s shoulder.

“So I guess dicks aren’t completely obsolete,” quipped a winded Janeway.

Seven laughed into Kathryn’s neck and wrapped a long leg around her wife’s body. “Where did all of that come from?”

The redhead huffed a laugh and shook her head. “No idea. I don’t know what came over me. I couldn’t help myself.”

“Clearly,” smirked the blonde. “Do not misunderstand me. I am not complaining.”

Janeway took a deep breath and grinned. “No, baby, you didn’t give me that impression. Sounded like you were enjoying yourself.”

“Indeed,” she sighed.

Janeway reached down to pull the top sheet over them and nestled into the pillows at their heads. “We’ll have to do it again sometime,” she husked.

Seven kissed Kathryn’s nearest cheek and settled against her once more. “I am so happy, Katie. We are going to have a little girl.”

“And she’s going to have the best mother in the world,” Janeway said, squeezing Seven’s arm.

“Mothers,” chided Seven. “She is a fortunate girl.” Kathryn felt the ex-Borg’s eyelashes flutter closed against her skin. “And so am I,” yawned the blonde. “Of all the starship Captains in the universe, it was you who found me. What luck,” she finished sleepily.

“I think you found me, my beautiful girl,” whispered Kathryn, eyes closing. “Raised in stardust.”

—

Seven and Kathryn spent the following weekend on Mars with Tom and B’Elanna — Seven assisting Tom with installing ‘Borg Yoke’ into the Delta-flyer-inspired shuttle craft he had built from scratch for personal use, and Kathryn taking the kids with B’Elanna to go swimming in the caves under Olympus Mons. 

“Thanks for doing this, Sev. I got so spoiled with Borg Yoke, it was annoying to fly this thing without it,” said Tom screwing the shield plating back into place over the ops panel.

“My pleasure,” said Seven from the chassis under the pilot console. “Why the sudden urgency to finish the shuttle?”

“Eh,” Tom shrugged. “You know. We finished the mission. I’m bored.”

“That is not the reason,” argued Seven breezily.

“Okay fine,” he folded, dipping his head to look at the Borg below. “B’Elanna’s been offered a Fleet rotation at Daystrom. She says she’s thinking about it, but I think she’s definitely taking it. It’d be a solid step to take to get her fourth pip. Boosts her science credentials. Admiral James has all but guaranteed she’ll get a Captaincy and a ship afterwards.”

“That is wonderful news,” Seven said, rolling herself out from under the console to meet Tom’s eyes. “This means you would be moving back to Earth.”

“Exactly,” he smiled. “I just want to have the shuttle ready to go before we make the move.”

“Understandable. What will you do on Earth?”

“I dunno. I like my testing gig for now, and I can commute to Utopia from anywhere. B’Elanna’s always going to outrank me, as well she should, so I figure whenever she gets a ship, I’ll just fly it.”

Seven sat up and grabbed her knees. “That sounds like a workable plan. And Kathryn and I will see you much more often, especially if you settle back in San Francisco.”

“I mean, I’d be lying if I didn’t say that was my top priority,” he teased, and then opened his mouth to croon, “Winter, spring, summer, or fall… all you have to do is call! And I’ll BE THERE! You’ve got a friend…”

Seven grinned and swatted away his singing with her metal hand. Tom laughed and leaned down to kiss her blonde hair. “Love you, Sev,” he smiled.

Seven smiled bashfully, laid back down on the chassis, and slid back under the console to hide her embarrassment. After several beats of comfortable silence, the occasional chirp of the computer system, and clinks of their tools against bolts and bulkhead, Seven said quietly, “Love you too, Tom.”

—

“So what will you be doing at Daystrom?” asked Kathryn excitedly, as a sopping wet Michael climbed into her lap.

“They say they want me to lead a team innovating a more compact slipstream drive. Something that can be made quicker and more cheaply for mass Fleet production,” said B’Elanna readjusting Miral’s water wings on her arms before the young girl jumped back into the water. “I think that’s just the first stage though. I imagine they’ll move me onto other projects afterwards.”

“No doubt,” agreed Janeway. She grabbed a towel from their shared bag to wipe down the young boy, who was now snacking on self-procured peanut butter crackers.

“Cap’n, you want one?” Michael asked, extending a tiny fist filled with a crumbled cracker in front of the Admiral’s face.

“No, Sweetheart, but thank you.” She smoothed down his wet, spiky hair and popped a kiss on his temple. “Does that mean you’ll be moving back to Earth?”

B’Elanna twisted her lips to one side to stifle a smile. “Yes, that’s the plan.”

Kathryn grinned. “To California?”

Torres laughed at Janeway’s eager expression. “More than likely. The transport hub from SF to Okinawa is so easy. My commute would take less than thirty minutes.”

“Well, as an unbiased, neutral observer, I think it’s a great idea,” supplied Janeway.

“Yes, when I think of a word that best describes Kathryn Janeway, ‘neutral’ is absolutely the first thing that comes to mind.”

“Ha, ha,” snarked Janeway.

“Switching gears. Dinner with the girlfriend. How’d it go?”

“Very well,” Kathryn said. “Seven’s come around to her. Though her negative feelings about the whole thing had nothing to do with Amara and everything to do with her boy growing up too fast.”

“Of course.”

“Who knew she’d be the one having trouble letting go?” laughed Kathryn.

“Oh, underneath that hard, titanium exterior, she’s a big softie,” said B’Elanna, waving a hand.

“Too adorable for her own good,” sighed Janeway. “And sweet, and caring—”

B’Elanna groaned. “Enough, please!”

“Is this making you uncomfortable, Miss They’re-Discussing-Ways-to-Go-Down-On-Us?” she whispered, covering Michael’s little ears as she did so.

Torres put a hand up. “Okay, point taken. You win.”

“I always do, Commander,” Janeway said haughtily.

B’Elanna narrowed her eyes and turned to face her splashing daughter in front of them. “Hey baby? Do you want to use your oil paints when we get home to paint the Captain’s face unicorn colors?”

Miral gasped and flailed in the water. “Yeah huh! Can I please, Captain?!”

B’Elanna turned her face back to Janeway and grinned mischievously. Kathryn rolled her eyes. “She’d love to, baby,” assured the Klingon.

—

After dinner that evening, B’Elanna left to go tuck in the kids while the remaining adults cleaned the table (and Kathryn cleaned her face.) Chores finally completed, Tom plopped down into a dining chair, grabbed a newly opened bottle of pinot on the table, and leaned over to fill the empty wine glasses next to the two women.

“None for me,” requested Seven, waving off the pour. “I am with child,” she stated bluntly.

Tom froze with the bottle tilted midair at forty-five degrees, eyes wide. “What!”

Kathryn dropped her head into her palm and smiled ruefully. “Seven! I thought we were going to deliver that news with a little more of, I don’t know, a lead up?”

Seven furrowed a brow and placed a hand on Janeway’s forearm. “Was our subunit meant to be a secret? I felt no need for obfuscation. Have I erred?”

The Admiral sighed and shook her head. “No, Honey, you haven’t. Everything’s fine,” she said leaning forward to kiss the blonde on her lips.

“Wait, back up!” ordered Tom, setting the pinot onto the tabletop with a thunk. “You’re going to have a baby, Sev? Really?”

“Yes. Kathryn impregnated me.”

“ _Seven_ ,” muttered Janeway, face turning pink.

“So we just spent the entire afternoon together, and you didn’t think to mention this?!” asked the pilot, arms waving.

Seven shrugged. “It did not come up in conversation.”

“Didn’t come up!” The pilot puffed out a hefty breath through his cheeks and slouched back onto his chair. Scrubbing a hand through his hair and down to his neck he said, “Man. This is great news. I mean, you guys have no idea. You have _really_ helped me out of a jam.”

The two women frowned and reared back their heads in near unison, utterly confounded by Tom’s reaction. “Excuse me? Our pregnancy has helped _you_ out of a jam? What the hell are you talking about, Chief?” asked the Admiral.

“Hey, shit, don’t get me wrong! For sure congratulations. This is amazing. It’s a blessing. I’m so happy for you guys,” he yadda-yadda’d, rotating a wrist with his words. “But woo! B’Elanna having a buddy to be pregnant with might get me out of the doghouse a little sooner, because she’s _extremely_ pissed at the moment,” he edged out of the side of his mouth. “You two have really done a solid for me here.”

His female companions knitted their brows together, mouths dropping open in inquiry.

“Oh yeah, B’Elanna’s pregnant again,” he supplied, waving a hand casually.

Kathryn gasped, eyes bright as her hand went to her mouth.

“Yeah!” grinned Tom. “I’m pretty thrilled, to be honest, but uh, I think B’El just needs to warm to the idea. It wasn’t exactly in her plan.”

“It’s a clusterfuck,” snapped the Klingon, striding into the room in a huff, having overhead the last bit of the conversation.

Tom raised an index finger and wagged it near his temple. “‘Clusterfuck’ is a shockingly accurate word to describe how this happened.”

“Shut it,” deadpanned Torres.

“This is such wonderful news, B’Elanna!” said Janeway as she jumped up to hug the brunette, ignoring her icy mood. “Moving back to Earth, and now this! How far along are you?”

The engineer released an exaggerated sigh, but indeed looked to be fighting a smile after the embrace. “Eight weeks.”

Seven quirked her chin sideways, brain processing the easy mental math. “So conception occurred while we were in the middle of our highly dangerous mission in the Delta Quadrant?” she asked, turning to regard the pilot for confirmation.

Tom smiled devilishly, winked, and fired off a couple of finger guns in the blonde’s direction for good measure.

Seven appeared deeply impressed by this feat, raising her eyebrows and nodding. “Well done,” she said, raising a hand to signal for a high five. Tom immediately completed the gesture with a satisfying slap.

Torres, arm still around Janeway’s waist, rolled her eyes and looked at her former Captain. “See? I told you. Frat boys.”

“Sweetheart, you gotta keep things in perspective,” whined Tom. “This time around should be relatively fun!”

His wife glared at him. “Relative to _what_ , Tommy? A lobotomy?”

“Relative to last time, since _this_ time you’ll have a friend to be pregnant with,” he said slapping a hand on Seven’s shoulder.

In a completely uncharacteristic display of girlishness, B’Elanna squealed and threw her hands up in surprise. She skipped over and threw her arms around Seven’s neck, showering kisses all over the Borg’s face while she held tight. “Oh my god! You precious girl. I’m so happy!” She reached over to grab at Kathryn’s hand and dragged the petite woman close. Holding the two women in her arms simultaneously, B’Elanna cried, “Oh, I _willed_ this beautiful shit to happen. I’m so proud of myself.”

Kathryn stifled a laugh and patted the hormonal Klingon’s back. “Uh congratulations, dear?” and, speaking honestly said, “We couldn’t have done it without you.”

  
  
  
  


#  **XIV. Earth's the Right Place for Love. I Don't Know Where It's Likely to Go Better.**

By the time Admiral Owen Paris’s retirement party came around, both B’Elanna and Seven were visibly showing, even in their flowing, chiffon evening gowns while milling amongst gobs of people in the Starfleet Headquarters glass-encased rotunda. Samantha Wildman and husband, Gres, were also in attendance, with newborn son, Mizan, nestled in his pram alongside sisters Etana and a shockingly grown-up-looking Naomi. The glut of pregnancies and babies (Miral and Michael were running around the venue, as well as Tuvok’s massive brood) at the event led to not an insignificant number of jokes about there ‘being something in the water’ in the Delta quadrant — a turn of phrase that Kathryn had to explain to a perplexed Seven of Nine. (“But Kathryn, our ship’s replicators ensure there are no aberrant chemicals in our drinking water.”)

True to his word, Admiral Paris nominated Kathryn to succeed him on the Fleet Council. While this proposal was met with the overwhelming support of the majority of the Admiralty, particularly given her renewed global celebrity after the dismantling of the Collective, her nomination indeed met the resistance of one Admiral Alynna Nechayev, as predicted.

Their interaction that evening had been cordial enough, despite the conflict. Nechayev had approached Kathryn while the redhead was waiting by the bar for her drink order.

“Admiral,” nodded Alynna tightly as her eyes sized up the smaller woman. “You’re looking well. I see you’ve recovered from your deep space mission.”

“I have, thank you, Admiral,” Janeway responded. “Nothing a few hyposprays couldn’t fix. Minor damage.”

“Right. Well. That’s good to hear,” said Nechayev, awkwardly avoiding Kathryn’s eyes and drumming her fingers on the bar nervously.

“And you, Admiral? Are you well?” probed Kathryn, eyebrow raised in question at the older woman’s uncharacteristic anxious behavior.

“Hm? Oh yes, quite well,” she said, eyes trained somewhere along Kathryn’s bare shoulders. “I, ah, wanted to congratulate you, as I said I would,” she said, finally shifting jittery eyes to meet Janeway’s gray ones. “You’ve done well, Kathryn.”

Janeway’s eyes widened at the use of her first name. She had never known the other woman to refer to her beyond her title. “Thank you… Alynna,” she finished after a beat. If she did not know better, she might have thought the blonde Admiral had a slight flush to her cheeks. Perhaps admitting a personal error was embarrassing for the woman. Kathryn could understand that. “I certainly didn’t do it alone. We all share the victory — you included, ma’am.” Janeway shrugged and took her drink from the bartender. “And there’s still plenty of work to do before we can kick our feet up. Lots of ex-Borg need our help.”

Alynna met her eyes again and jerked a nod. “Too right.”

“Hey, Cap!” yelled Tom, some ten meters away from them. She turned away from Nechayev to find him. “Would you come over here and settle a bet?” he grinned, slapping a hand on chuckling Greskrendtregk’s back. “Gres thinks _Metzer_ of all people got ousted two-three on a double fault at last year’s Velocity world game finals. Can you back me up here?”

Janeway smiled and rolled her eyes. “Please excuse me, Admiral,” she said, squeezing Nechayev’s wrist warmly before gliding off to meet the boisterous pilot.

Seven had watched the entire exchange of the two Admirals from afar; saw Alynna Nechayev roll and flex the wrist Kathryn had touched; saw Nechayev stare heatedly at the retreating redhead’s form, paying close attention to the exposed skin of Kathryn’s back that the boatneck, navy satin gown revealed. Seven smirked — B’Elanna had been entirely correct.

“Admiral Nechayev,” greeted Seven from behind the blonde Admiral. Alynna jumped and whipped around suddenly at the intrusion, eyes ripping away self-consciously from Kathryn’s backside. “Enjoying yourself this evening?”

Nechayev cleared her throat and took a breath to calm herself. “Seven of Nine.” Her eyes drifted down to Seven’s swollen midsection, covered by the royal blue, empire waist dress she had donned from the occasion. “I see congratulations are in order,” Alynna said tersely.

“Yes,” smiled Seven. “Kathryn and I are thrilled.”

“Wonderful,” murmured Nechayev in a tone that revealed she thought the development to be anything but.

Seven moved her hands to clasp at her back in her traditional parade rest stance. “Now that we have dispensed with the pleasantries, let us move on to a more substantive topic.”

“Oh?” said Alynna flatly. “And what would that be?”

“To begin, your obvious sexual attraction to my wife.”

Nechayev sputtered and reared back. “Excuse me?”

“I ask that you not insult my intelligence by denying it, Admiral.” Alynna clenched her jaw and lowered her brows. “As someone who is also highly attracted to Kathryn Janeway, I quite understand the feeling. What I do not understand, however, is your dogged attempts to deny her a rightful position on the Fleet Council.”

Nechayev huffed. “Fleet Council business is hardly the concern of a civil contractor.”

“Perhaps not. Kathryn Janeway, however, is very much my business.” Seven took a step closer to the blonde Admiral and lowered her voice. “You see, the only logical deduction I can gather from your misguided opposition to Kathryn’s Council seat is that you fear having someone you want so desperately in your constant presence. Particularly in a professional setting. It would indeed be uncomfortable, I grant you.”

Nechayev’s eyes hardened, but she said nothing.

“However, I am going to ask, respectfully, that you find a way to overcome that fear. Kathryn Janeway deserves every professional accolade coming her way, and it seems terribly unreasonable to have a personal issue like yours stand in obstacle to her promotion. Do you not agree, Admiral?”

Alynna raised an eyebrow and shook her head. “What a piece of work you are.”

“Are we in agreement, Admiral?” Seven pressed again with more emphasis.

“We are,” spit out Nechayev between clenched teeth.

“Wonderful,” smiled Seven falsely, parroting Alynna’s earlier insincere sentiment.

Nechayev rolled her eyes and immediately clicked away from Seven with a flourish. “Have a pleasant evening, Admiral,” called Seven with a wave to the angry woman’s back.

“Oh no,” said a smirking B’Elanna as she approached from Seven’s flank. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

Seven smiled devilishly at the pregnant engineer. “Did what, Commander?”

B’Elanna laughed loudly. “Kahless, she’s probably shitting her pants right now. You can be terrifying, you know that?”

“I suppose I learned my fear tactics from the best,” laughed Seven as she circled an arm around the Klingon’s shoulders. Against her, she felt Torres quake. “B’Elanna?” she questioned, looking down at her friend.

“Oh Casanova,” cried a teary, hormonal B’Elanna Torres. “That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

—

Across the room, Gres put both hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright, I know when I’ve lost an argument!” he laughed. “Pretty stupid of me to think I could take on a Paris and a Janeway at the same time.”

“Believe me from personal experience — a Janeway is enough,” joked Tom.

“Gres!” said Samantha, flagging down her husband. “Can you watch the kids while I go to the restroom?”

“Be right there!” the ginger-haired Ktarian yelled. “Nice chatting with you both… I think,” he chuckled as he left them.

Janeway smiled, and linked arms with her jovial helmsman, who grinned back at her and accepted the escort duties.

“So. Katie Janes,” he smiled, as they leisurely walked about the room, arm in arm. “The Great Borg Emancipator. Voyager hero. Baby on the way. Fleet Council seat at the ready. Coolest wife ever at home. How _do_ you do it?”

She beamed and shook her head. “With a lot of help from a lot of people. You included,” she said patting her free hand on his chest.

“Well, obviously you wouldn’t be where you are today without _me_ ,” he agreed with mock seriousness.

“No, no, definitely not,” she shook her head solemnly.

“At the beginning of your career I was present, of course, as the broody teenager slouching in the corner of Starfleet functions, inspiring you from a distance. Are we enough years away from that for me to admit Teenage Tom carried a little bit of a torch for you?”

Kathryn twisted her lips to the side and looked up at him. “I was aware of that at the time.”

“Oof. How embarrassing for me,” he fake-grimaced with a squeeze of her hand. “Then, years later, there you were. Just a washed-up, decorated Starfleet Captain, at a complete loss with how to tackle your new assignment to take on the Maquis. Luckily,” he noted, raising an index finger, “I swooped in and saved your mission. After you broke me out of maximum security prison, of course,” he added with a casual wave of his hand. “Minor detail. I have thanked you for that, haven’t I?”

She smiled and nodded once. “Many times, Lieutenant.”

“Phew, good,” he responded with an exaggerated wipe of the hand across his forehead. They strolled a bit more in silence around the room, arm in arm, until Tom stopped them away from the crowd and turned to face her, his buoyant expression suddenly turned sincere. “Hey, listen. I wanted to thank you for something else, too. And I don’t want you to feel awkward about it.”

Janeway furrowed her brows and smiled questioningly up at him. “About what?”

“About… Dad,” he said finally with a shrug of a shoulder.

“Oh,” whispered Kathryn, her smile falling. She worried at her bottom lip with her teeth. “What about your father?”

“Cap, relax,” he reassured with a small smile and hand to her arm. “Like I said, I want to thank you. Feel free to tell me if I’m off base here, but I get the feeling you had some stern words with him not too long ago about his downright shitty behavior towards you for, oh say, twenty years? Am I right?”

She exhaled and looked up at him. “You might be.”

He nodded. “I thought so. No one else but you could get through to him. Believe me, I’ve tried. Many times. Very loudly.” He flicked a hand to clear away the thought. “But that’s not my point. My point is, whatever you said to him worked. He’s been going to counseling, and I think he’s a lot healthier now. He and my mom seem like they’re better than ever. He’s genuinely excited about retirement and seeing the family more often. And he’s less of an overall dick, which I personally benefit from,” he added lightly.

Janeway hummed a laugh. “That’s good to hear, Tom.”

He inhaled a deep breath, took both her hands in his, and smiled down at her. “So anyway, thank you. Thank you for making me your personal redemption mission. Thanks for kicking my dad’s ass. Thanks for being the reason I have a wife and a best friend. Thank you for getting us home. Twice. You’re the best.” He shook his head and laughed. “I don’t know what we’d do without you, Cap.”

Janeway, watery eyed, felt her face crumple at his words. Leaning forward, she kissed the pilot on the cheek and embraced him tightly, wondering for all the world how one woman could be so rich.

—

Kathryn Julia Paris was born to exhausted parents B’Elanna Torres and Tom Paris right on time four months later, with her father’s golden hair and her mother’s beautiful dark eyes. “I think we’re going to call her KJ,” Tom had whispered drowsily over the vidscreen to Kathryn and Seven, while B’Elanna and little Kathryn slept in the biobed behind him. Janeway had naturally fallen to pieces when she learned of the child’s name.

Kathryn had heard the news of the Paris birth from her new office adjacent to the rest of the Fleet Council suites. Alynna had kept her promise to Seven and dropped her dissenting vote to Kathryn’s promotion — with Janeway none the wiser to the agreement.

A short seven weeks later, Seven of Nine likewise went into labor. It would have been a comical event if Kathryn had not been pulling her own hair out for the duration, with Seven uttering phrases like, “Kathryn, I am experiencing a high degree of pain” and “I feel I am dilated well beyond what my body would consider acceptable parameters” through clenched teeth. The Doctor and Amara Kel had led the medical team in charge of the delivery, a situation which posed its own farcical moments. 

“Excellent! She’s crowning with only moderate vaginal tearing,” clapped the Doctor as Seven screamed bloody murder.

“Admiral Janeway, would you like to watch us pull the baby from your wife’s, uh, birth canal?” Amara had offered. Seven growled and locked Kathryn’s hand in a vise-grip by her side.

“I think I’ll stay right here, Amara.”

The hours and days that followed were a blur for Kathryn: a mess of tears, hugs, vid calls, kisses from Gretchen and Phoebe, diaper changes, the hovering Doctor, Icheb’s wide-eyed wonder when holding his sister, and the heart-shattering beauty of Seven and their perfect daughter.

Reclining on the hospital bed, Seven and their sleeping infant wrapped protectively in her arms, Kathryn whispered, “Have you settled on a name?”

Seven smiled, and moved a finger of their girl’s pink cheek. “I was thinking Anatoly.”

Janeway nuzzled her face into Seven’s hair and kissed her behind the ear. “That’s a lovely idea. Though maybe a bit masculine for this one,” she said brushing back the auburn baby hair from her little forehead.

“Ana, then. For his memory. And Gretchen, for your mother,” decided the blonde.

“Ana Gretchen Janeway. You sure?” smiled Kathryn.

“Yes, it is perfect.”

Janeway sighed. “She looks like you, thank god.”

“Perhaps. But she has your lovely hair, and long arms and legs. And the smile. I think that might be yours, too.” Seven twisted a bit in Kathryn’s hold to meet her eyes. “We should have another, Katie,” she grinned.

Janeway laughed and kissed her wife. “Let’s see how we do with Ana. But we just might.”

—

Kathryn stepped out onto the back porch, rickety screen door hissing and smacking shut behind her. She shrugged into her parka and padded near-silently into dewey grass in the backyard. Taking a deep breath, she looked out to the horizon. It was early; the sun had not risen yet, but she could see the glow of it peaking up behind the buckeye trees. Eyes drifting out into the rye field ahead, she caught sight of a strong pair of shoulders and a salt and pepper head in the grass. Smiling, she trudged forward to the figure, green shoots rustling under her bare feet, and took a seat.

“I didn’t know you’d be out here,” she said warmly as she settled into the grass.

“Where else would I be, Goldenbird?” said Edward Janeway, turning a serene face toward her in greeting.

Kathryn smiled back at him and looked heavenward. The last sprinkle of stars were fighting to shine through the forthcoming dawn. “It’s nearly sunrise. I think we came out too late to catalogue the Federation.”

Edward reached over to pull her hand into his. “That isn’t why I like coming out here. This is our place, hm? Yours and mine.”

Kathryn felt the press of emotion thicken in her throat. This was just a moment. Nothing she could keep. “But we haven’t been here together in a long time, have we?” She squeezed his hand, and swallowed hard. Tears gathering in her eyes, she raised her face to him once again. “You look so good.” And he did look good to Kathryn’s starving eyes. Bright and peaceful and content. Steady and warm — just as she remembered. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve never left you, my girl. I’ll always be right here,” he said softly, patting the earth around them.

“It’s been so hard without you,” she confessed with a wavering timbre. “And I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m so sorry, Daddy.”

Edward Janeway smiled, and kissed her hand. “This pain is not a thing for you to carry. And you did save me, Goldenbird, the moment you were born. A miracle. You understand this now.”

Kathryn smiled sadly. “Yes, I do.”

“And you are happy,” he stated.

“Yes, I am,” she said, tear streaking down her face. “Very happy.”

He pulled her close, under his arm and kissed her hair as he had so many times when she was a girl. Both looking skyward, he said, “You’re right, Goldenbird. Morning comes.”

—

Kathryn’s eyes snapped open, suddenly awake. It had been years and years since she had dreamt of her father, and she still felt the lump in her throat that his presence had wrought. She took a deep, steadying breath and rolled over to face a sleeping Seven. Checking the chronometer on their dresser, she could see it was just past 06:00 hours. It was Saturday, however, and the family could well afford to sleep-in.

A clear mewling sounded from the hallway. Apparently Ana had other plans.

At the sound of the cry, Seven stirred and curled into Kathryn’s side. “I can get her, Katie,” Seven slurred with an adorable mewl of her own.

Kathryn, heart melting, leaned over and laid kisses across Seven’s closed eyes, cheeks, and lips. “No, baby, you sleep. It’s my turn.”

Rising before the drowsy blonde could pose another argument, Janeway threw on her silk robe over her nightgown and stepped quietly toward the nursery. Just outside the door, she paused, catching sight of Icheb holding the small bundle of Ana in his arms by her crib, rocking back and forth in his stance to calm her.

“Shh, shh, shh,” Icheb comforted. “You’re alright, little one. I’ve got you.”

Kathryn put a hand to her chest at the sight and leaned her shoulder against the door frame. For the second time in mere minutes, she thought she might cry.

“We’ve got to stick together you and I,” he whispered as he cradled her. “I am happy to have a partner to help me look after Mother and Majka. We could scarcely ask for better parents, but they do tend to take unnecessary risks.”

Kathryn hid a smile behind her hand.

“Although,” he continued with a sigh, “I have no doubt you will be as fearless as they are. More trouble for Icheb,” he smiled ruefully.

Janeway felt a hand on her waist and turned in profile to see Seven arrive at her side. The blonde kissed Kathryn’s forehead and handed her a steaming cup of coffee, and then took a sip from her own mug.

“How am I doing?” Icheb asked his mothers without taking his eyes away from the gurgling baby in his arms. 

“Exceptional, Sweetheart,” said Kathryn. Seven echoed the sentiment, and wrapped her arms around the auburn woman from behind. 

“Do you need a break?” asked Kathryn.

Icheb beamed down at his cherished sister. “No, Mother. I am quite contented.”

Turning slightly in her wife’s arms, she nestled her face against the blonde’s chest and listened intently to the beating of her magnificent heart. She thought back to the father of her dreams — so amazingly true to the father of her memory. She thought about loss, the pain of it, how it felt like emptiness without end. But despite the losses she had endured — those so forcefully pulled out of her mind the year prior by the Queen, the death of crewmembers, Anatoly Kuznetsov, Justin, her noble father — Kathryn could not begin to fathom the gifts she had been bestowed in their place. She had a purpose, a career she adored; a loving mother and sister; the most loyal and devoted friends imaginable; her beautiful, precious children; and Seven. Always, always Seven.

Love of this magnitude, she thought, felt like everything she had ever lost had been returned to her all at once.

And looking at her children while enveloped in the arms of her beloved wife, Kathryn could not help but agree with her son.

“Me too, my boy,” she smiled. “Quite contented.”


End file.
